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Notes, Narrative, Part 1
The slave-driving outpost was palisaded. Some of the outdoor ground there was muddy, and most of it was grey-looking.
It was also rather similar to what a strict boarding school would be like.
I think the existence of places such as this was probably somehow due to the empire, or some institution(s) like it, or under it.
Leaving the premises without authorization was prohibited, and if Rasha snuck out once or twice to return with excitement at the finding of odd things such as maps or tapestries, he’d have been scolded.
Rasha may have thought he briefly saw the spirit outside of the outpost, with a somewhat decrepit forest just behind it, its head and shoulders visible just beyond the top of the palisades.
Rasha’s mother probably had a relationship with one of the slave-masters, which was probably at least half-forced. But she’d grown used to it, and contented. This might explain why Rash
Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
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