Loon. Lune. Two words come together.
That lonesome sound ricocheting of the dark cliffs of the Boreal lakes. If I could bottle the perfect perfume it would smell like Moon Light on the water with the echo of the diver bird. The taste of aloneness. The feel of cold black water. The chill of winter in the night sky. Pull the stopper. Deep breath in. Are you a northern person? That’s me: Homo Borealis
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