blot paragraph

There is a door. It is a square cut out from a cookie-cutter. It is a way in and a way out. It is a window into this world and a window out of this world.  This is where a story sits, peering out the edge of this square and into the watercolour painting beyond…The light too bright for its eyes and its eyes too dim for the light- so they glared at each other in dispute, wondering when the other would look away and then its eyes watered and watered the world with it, so that flowers grew down from the top of the sky and the story reached out and said take me, let me climb over these leafs and reach the universe beyond, but when it pulled the stems the flowers fell onto the ground and they grew dim, tainted with the grounding of ground, covered in dust, reality settled over them like morning breath and made them feel like they would never be the same again. So they sat on the edge of a rock and said something to it that nobody else could hear. Then they closed their eyes and watched the world from the inside out. 


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