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The Echo
This is why I have conquered myself; it was for the echo. For the same memory of a child and for the sake of insanity in the wake I left in distance behind. And in admitting so, I have found an open channel of peacefulness that is sometimes tangled until the unwinding of a park bench, or a tree too deep in the woods to describe. And how unreserved it must sound to one with no experience with knowing pride from the discourse inside an hour. We can only see what we can see, and this is why time comes in such intervals. What came into my present time was only a tree that recognizes what stood there as mine and the glare of the dream, and that is stretching it still some. The trees shivered with the first hints of a storm, and so I echoed it, diligently and gladly, and then I moved on.
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