Some places are sacred.

Some people are sacred.

Some people are places- spaces that open sometimes.

Some people breathe in deeper.

Some people fly, close to the ground. And gold drips from their bodies, scattering a dazzling script over the blank pages of the city.

Some places are dense, like pine honey, they hold on, and their aftertaste lingers.

Some people are thorny, like rosebushes, and to walk past them is to remain entangled in their story.

Footsteps mark the ground, until new pathways cross and overlap on the cracked tarmac.

Some places are invisible, only seen with eyes closed: a change in temperature, an acoustic shift that delineates or erases.

Some people are invisible, only felt as a shiver on the skin when the rain begins to fall.

Some are moving parts, and some are fixed centre points, rooted into the ages. Time will slide over them and turn their white palms dark as it glides.

Some places are sacred.

Some people are places that, in silence, await for the cracked fingers that will reach into the unknowable spaces within, and unlock them.

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