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S. K. Nicholas

zhu-liang-1122428-unsplashIt starts in some strange, recurring dream, where the buildings in my hometown are not stained by history but brand-spanking new, and there in some park beneath a tree that touches the sky, is a girl who would be my own; a girl I once called home. You’re alive for a while with time on your side, then before you know it, you’re no longer a child but a shape wearing a suit. Most make the transition without knowing, and even when they do, they deny it the same way they deny the uncomfortable truths regarding the dastardly card of death. It’s not a dance for them, but a slow descent. It’s a dance for us, though. It’s a dream of a forest and of the glowing lights in the middle of the night that call your name through the window of your room, and even though it’s cold and…

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