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To those who say plants do not move, Fechner says that we simply lack the patience to observe their slowness
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Fechner holds forth on a lexicon of fragrance, scent poured from chalice to chalice like great gossipy chatter:
In addition to the souls which run about and cry and feast might there not be souls that bloom in stillness, that quench thirst by slurping dew, that exhale fragrance, that satisfy their highest longings by budding and burgeoning towards light?
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