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Life is too short for boring stories

It starts very small. It always starts small. Just a spark at the edge of the forest. Pride and sublime, the trees rise to heaven. Decades of growth gave them this enormous height. They do not move, they are just there. And then it comes, this little spark, nestles between withered grasses and leaves, unconcerned …

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It had something special, something quite special, some occurrences. For hours now she was sitting there, musing. The fire flickered in the fireplace. There was nothing to say, actually, and yet, in how many varieties, in how many nuances the flames lurched, how they unified and separated again, how they were pleasingly flattered and dispersed. …

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