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Oct 2013
I’m imagining a place where trees stretch their arms to the sky and strain lucidly for stars we cannot reach. The grass reflects subtle lights spawned from fireflies landing in the palms of our hands, still, but alive. It smells of ethylene and the garden looks as though it could foster a plethora of unknown tales from unknown times.
But this place does not exist.
Victoria Kiely
Written by
Victoria Kiely  Guelph
(Guelph)   
433
 
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