When we come to it. We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe. Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger. Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace. We, this people on this mote of matter. In whose mouths abide cankerous words. Which challenge our very existence. Yet out of those same mouths. Come songs of such exquisite sweetness. That the heart falters in its labor. And the body is quieted into awe.
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Content Catnip 