Perhaps hike a hill with a jug of wine and an empty notebook, rid the mind of its terror and some of its chaos, breathe what there is to breathe in from the top of a perfect day. Return with the story of seeing off to faraway distances, past the autumn waters, beyond the hills across the bay, and to the sun. To treat observation of the world as a sort of open invocation, to feel the wind as a type of listening, to regard silence as its reply.
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