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the surface of the moon is sort of like antarctica, but casually draped with snow in some spots, not a blanketed tundra. the sky above is a void matching the landscape, a layering of fine fog. on our right, pale yellow pando dusted white. we cannot see the tapestry of roots beneath the solid ground, the single organism breathing under wheel, yet we know it in the way our hands clasp, the way our pulses beat as one. i drive us across rocky and frozen treads in a roofless vehicle, pointing as we pass, wanting him to capture the scene with his camera—the aperture of our eyes can’t let in the light necessary to burn this to the synapse of memory.
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