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Imagine. Sitting in a little wooden boat. Drifting on a pond. Air is warm, it leaves damp kisses behind. A figure sitting across from you. He has the oars. You want them.

A voice in your head whispers: “Rock the boat. Don’t be afraid to let the words…controlled…subdued…contained…drift away on the breeze like a leaf in autumn. You have to rock the boat. You have to grow. You have to not be afraid.”

And you do.

You make it back to land, clothes hanging limp, gasping for air, but free.

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