''one could breathe that only on the bright edges of the world,
on the great grass plains or the sage brush desert.
That air would disappear from the whole earth in time, perhaps; but long
after his day. He did not know just when it had become so necessary to him, but
he had come back to die in exile for the sake of it. Something soft and wild
and free, something that whispered to the ear on the pillow, lightened
the heart, softly, softly picked the lock, slid the bolts, and released the
prisoned spirit of man into the wind, into the blue and gold, into the morning,
into the morning!''
from Death Comes for the Archbishop
by Willa Cather
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