the story

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The story is simple. And it carries no deep meaning. No profound intricacy. No obscure undertone. No sophistication. The story is just scattered on the wooden piles. Like restless gazes.

I would like to believe that the story is original. I would like to believe that I wrote it. But nothing can be original. Nothing is unique. Nothing unusual.

The wait is in vain. I can’t write that story. There are no puzzles to solve. No turning, roaming and searching around. No tearing apart. No drowning in the soil.

So the story ends here.

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