With a final hasty mouthful Umin abandons, with a quirk of reluctance, the bowl and skitters after the heedlessly receding crimson cloth and girl-shape.
“Then I’ve found the Shore..."
The thought was softly breathless. A lingering apprehension, as though fearing the acquisition at last of something long sought.
Sweet boy…
The shore hard by the sea.
Longs for thee and me…
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A dark, fantastical tale that is intended to unfold a paragraph, or thereabouts, at a time.
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