Echo chambers evaporate. For some, it feels naked. But it's the same wind that took our grandfathers to war. On top of a mushroom, the root sweats upward, defying gravity put in place by a silent tyrant. Every drink from the mushroom cup is a benediction of that silence. Let's call it mercy to save our sanity.
THE JB MINTON NEWSLETTER
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I'm a big fan of mushroom poems!