Today, I again attempted to cup the passing Air between my hands.
The feeling was enigmatic, inexplicable, indescribable.
Again I failed.
Striking. Like Roquelaure’s macabre.
Surreal. Like Gaiman’s reveries.
Eternal. Like Neruda’s eloquence.
Tonight, the Air again wisped between my fingers.
I am still attempting.
I know I can’t,
But still I try.
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