Once again, a brief improv in the spirit of Brigitte Byrd
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On steeping a single-serving bag of tea
Sure, your self-consciousness dips and pours as easily. But no hot water could boil something useful from you. Your herbs were never primed for the picking, never dried or sun-baked. No, your sap and genetics rebuke any healing, any aromatherapy—hell, the only therapy you ever heard of came at two-hundred an hour.
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