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You’re still a million years young, my daughter. Your magma blood is cooling to the plaster islands that will form your ragged arms, still cradled around your iron heart when you are old and sagging to the beat of the sun’s death before you. Don’t worry when fire bursts from your orifices and smolders the planets that orbit you like devotees, sending them scattered to other rings around other celestial bodies. For yours is not done forming. Don’t be afraid when the rain inside you drowns the forests you grew for a year from your bones; oceans will flow to the tip of your brain and tickle your coral thoughts with parrotfish beaks, releasing memory light. Don’t despair when the small people plunge stakes and flags into your flesh, even when they sell half of you to the King and half to the CFO of the company that manufactures iron lungs to lock you in. For the small people are younger and older than you are and will drop like seed pods, husked and dried and you will go on boiling and turning and flooding until you find yourself beautiful, alone in the universe.

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