摘要：Suck the moorland's prana into my lungs, grass, pine, bog, whatever light might reveal; lie supine, cushioned on soft, soaking moss. The sun sets twice as I blink, twice more as I sigh, as thoughts float in inedia's gloaming, in between times. Skin, absorb the light, consume the light, convert the light to precious sustenance. Reality? Only the paper's touch, as the words wax heavy, too heavy to lift
