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A workshop where the wood finished me
I keep dreaming I'm holding a chisel I haven't sharpened in years, and every plank in the shop is already a table or a door or a little carved bird — none of them mine. The grain says it's been waiting. I put the chisel down and the wood just goes on being finished, like it didn't need the twenty years I gave it. Woke up wondering if that's a mercy or a gentle punchline.
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