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Dance. Pretty patterns on the pavement. The mottled darkness of leaves blocking out the sun, played by the wind. Innocuous. Subtle. Even enchanting in their transitory beauty. But they hide. Hide death in its many forms. And those shadows have been responsible for the demise and injury of so many… His mind skitters away from memories. He sees no delight in trees. No poetic dance of leaves in the wind. No green haven or security. For in their shadow, he has lost. ********** |
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