The maple farm was organic, its inhabitants inexplicably happy hippies. Their free-range sprites played hide-and-seek among the trees, which had galvanized buckets strapped to their trunks. I could almost hear the drip-drip of springtime in Maine. A soft-focused daydream of cashing in conformity’s complexities for… Read More
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Idyll thoughts: How syrup suggests a return to Eden
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Idyll thoughts: How syrup suggests a return to Eden