Intro (kind of)
We could have made books if we had written down the letters that were tangled in our hearts, but we just let them fade in the wind like echoes of a broken promise.
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We all are sentient moving pieces of unfinished art and the world is but a huge art gallery.
We could have made books if we had written down the letters that were tangled in our hearts, but we just let them fade in the wind like echoes of a broken promise.
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