When I was in high school I lived about half a block from an enormous cemetery. In the three or four years we lived there, I went in maybe twice. My Mum went all the time, because she's metal, but it wasn't for me, even in the spring when it was very beautiful. It wasn't the darkest time in my life, but it wasn't great, and something about walking through a cemetery, even a civil war era cemetery, felt morbid. I wanted to find a bridge between that feeling and the idea of low or fairy roads, the line between life and death and magic. It was a very strange time in my life, strange to live and stranger to look back on. The air off the cemetery in summer was cool and dreamy, though. Small blessings.
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