When it began it must have begun in friction,
it must had a comfort in giving me a recurrence.

The place had a tree,
an old tree with dying smile and the afternoons had a lost bravery.

The bones were made with muds of shallow river, it never had the abundance of expression and the scars were usual for a ceaseless traveller.

Usually people being good with goodbyes are somehow good with beginings too. But a vacuum of absolute invisibility is what keeps us going i guess.

And in that silence somehow a flower blooms where we forget we have days to burn and we walk away with all that belonged in our boundaries of reliance and fights of compulsions.

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Photograph: Paul Schulz