motes-played.post-self.ink/content/draft/000.md

{{% verse %}}She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turk Upon a Couch of flowers.   Her ghost strolled softly o’er the hill Yesterday, and Today, Her vestments as the silver fleece — Her countenance as spray.

  — Emily Dickinson{{% /verse %}}

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To The Lament, who offered me reclamation.
— Madison Scott-Clary