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I write with the hands of a pauper, with the grief of the hopeless. I write with the caustic memories of mourners standing by the grave chanting dark dirge to their beloved.
It never happens right away. You read a poem, a book, "A beautiful piece of literature," they say. Eh... Later, you find yourself thinking; right before you go to bed,
A false memory The chessboard, the white knight Almost in the same instant Victory An enormous volume of noise Even as it started News had run round the streets like magic
                                      I ♥ literature          Literature is– As vast as the sea,I can only take a scoop of sip; As wide as a mountain,I can scarcely peek at true face.  
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