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Literature
Our Insomniac's Tree
I don’t remember when they started, these dreams. Me, standing by the huge circular window night after night, looking out to see the endless infinity that lay just out of reach, separated by the thick pane of glass, illuminated around the edges by the brightest, purest light. The light was ever constant and upon looking through it my reflection would merge with the deepest space on the glass. It had filled me with such wonder and I felt like there was something I was missing between the constant tiredness and the brain fog in the dream. Then before long, I’d find myself circling the tree again for the hundredth time, round and round I’d sl...
The written words
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Inktober 17 black and white
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