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ꘜ‿︵‿ꘜ
March 1st, Year 124
︶꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶꒦
▲‿▲Do the trees bleed?
Do the prosperous sons lead?
How many times . . . will they writhe?
It was a solemn day. Notable, in a hundred years, for the thick chill in the fog that hung over the bog.
Ripe fruit, apples to orchards, picked...