On Writing: Free writing

​It started with the taste but then became the touch. The cold skins, muddied by the earth, that lay warming against the treated wood of the bench. I felt the moss fleck away from their pulled roots, watched the soil drop back to where it belonged. It occurred to me that I might eat them, then; hold each firm around the trunk and rip my teeth through their tops. You would want to cook them, though, and make a meal of kindness. But these days I would happily have them raw, and after. 

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