Marmot; A short love letter to Phil

I wonder what he’s thinking when

They lift him up so high

You worship him, your god of spring

He’s just a little guy

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I laugh, yet I bleed these shades of crimson blindness. Where is my reward?

Will this away: the heedless noise, the shifting of the silver tides. Embrace the mountains far aloft with clouds encircled, fair and...

Is it we who look up to the stars? Or do they gaze up toward us?