Stories come alive at night.
They are whispered around dying campfires, by quiet bedsides, under deformed old trees.
They might get interrupted by the howling wind, inaudible gasps, or nervous comments, only to be continued fervently once the dust settles again.
Why did the girl visit the eerie village? What did the gypsy’s words mean? Can the discovery of a new flower change the world?
Stories are supposed to end but they never do.
They leave you wondering and longing for more. They live on in your mind, in corners with cobwebs and memories you’ve been suppressing, in recurring daydreams you have while waiting in long lines. They fester and thrive there. They spiral and soar. You wish they would die but they cannot anymore.
Once you blow breath into a story, it instantly becomes yours...
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