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his wife turned to him in the early hours of the morning, what artists call velvet twilight, what he works to put into words, and she said, “you smell like the sea. what has swallowed you up; how have you returned to my me?” his chest rose and fell in silent triumphs. his wife said his name, said his nickname she gave him when he needed one. his lips parted and she saw a leaf glide out in peace to rest upon his chin. she ushered some plea to his ear, in hopes he would stir.