Some days I wonder. As happy as the thin layer of ash that resonates near a fire, the mangled feathers flicker as the wind halts the direction of the arrow to an end. The ghosts crawl and creep but never showing themselves, imitating a fear. Disappearance an act of terror for the thin layer of happiness washes away with the overshadowing of what could be to what is real.

—Benjamin Mollenhour

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