Can I write again, without remembering the pain. Can I ignore the ignorance... I'm handcuffed to the so called root. This is not cherishing my root but that's solemnly the infectious memories of the blossom of a young brittle tree. The small branch that glittered our minds and illuminated the path in front and all of a sudden arouse a tender thunder. A pacific tempest that could not tolerate denial of its dream. The dream was all about a word. Hope...
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