A holiday arrives, tears at your heritage, sings of flowering forest floors, of babbling brooks and how the medieval heroines of your childhood just had to shout in spring. Somehow you made it to May, but it's more than that. Somehow you made it out of the woods, you start to believe it now. Start to look at the piles of paper around you and think, it's time to do something about this. There was a time you believed in life, and maybe, just maybe, you do again.
It's hard to know where to start when you've burned everything to the ground.
Sometimes just standing still and watching the smoke clear
is good enough.
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