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You move so deeply past the fog, into the violet leaves of cold dusk. I told you we are foolish to whisper to those crows up there, who watch like surveillance cameras as we get close to their home. Did you look in the sky's mirror and discover who you are? Did you have a reflection at all? The scythe of moon cuts through the grass of night clouds, and you tell me in runes of what it speaks about what's to come. Though it stops at what we both want to know. It is tight lipped. It gives no hints to the secret.