To open a watermelon, we must first choose a place for the door. Remember: there will be no handle, no lock, no bell — only light, and a thumping sound sure to call children — a split and a crack like a limb or a shack weighted with ice in the winter. Out back is the mind. Leave it behind. This is no time for thinking. And what do we find? The heart, breaking. Ours for the keeping. One word for laughing, one word for weeping. Such is the flavor of joy.
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