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It's amazing the amount of unsent letters that lie in wait in a reluctantly, but constantly, moving mind. Or that were scribbled hurriedly on random pieces of paper, holding their leafy breath for the day they get transcribed in a journal right and proper. The paper goes from pristine white, marred only by the smearing of lead against them, to aged cream, and sometimes even brittle yellow. Words still clear as crystal, though. They never escape. They never fall upon the ears, or eyes, they were directed at. 

But it's usually for the best.

Created: Aug 10, 2012


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