Prose
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I stand above a pool of someone’s blood and attempt to notice the faces, in the attempt of my question, coming forth in trembling syllables, “Who had caused this destruction?” A wasteland surrounds me in echoes of crying women. Of weeping men over the graves to their beloved, they too, sing out. They feel, as…
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“Her yearnings are infinite…” Empathy is the emotion of the personal. The snow and its cold are where people are buried. Beneath its flakes, there is the death of where people sleep. We have noticed of the towns and cities that are spread across the earth, that sympathy is now the emotion used for when…



