I need these pages to pour it into me. My soul is dusty and chapped. It needs living water.
Rushed home from work tonight. Had a hot date with a Good Book.
I need closed closets and open pages.
I need what I pretend I can live without. This water doesn't just quench. It replenishes. It recreates. It transforms. I draw strength from divine ink.
Rush like a torrent over my jagged heart and smooth the rough edges. (Does the river stone cry in pain as it is polished? Does it know the crushing current is beneficial?)
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