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Irises are hard to press. They stain the page purple and leave only a frail, papery vellum behind. Pressing irises is like writing in a journal with pencil. Over the years, they fade and are only a shadow of past events. Just whispers.

I write in ink now, so quickly that my letters tie together like cursive. I press my heart onto the page until it bleeds out color. Staining the page is my soul. What’s left behind is iridescence. Incandescence. Wrap each long petal around a lamp, spun together with spider’s threads. It’s not so hard to see now.

Many of the journals are useless to me. I do not want to see what I wrote in ink. It’s not so easy to erase into rolls of rubber swept away. The ink is sticky and runs across the page like mare’s tails in the sky.

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