What forms us and how do we form ourselves? We come into the world, gasping and squalling, pushed or tugged from the soft nest. Do we mourn for those hours (before hours) spent floating in twilight, asleep in pictureless dreams or adrift, sleepily conscious of something more, something else?
Yes. From the moment we are born, some of us mourn, and for us, birth is the first death and our mourning - the artifact of first love.
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