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The floor murmurs as I move about the place. Splinters crackle underfoot and the smell of sodden wood envelops me. What was this place? The open slats in the roof are what drew me from the road, and now I stand here, painted with a venetian blind of light, wondering ... what was this place? I'm torn between the desire to know, and the strangely satisfying realization that I never will. It is a mystery. A sweet, beautiful mystery.

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Splinters of Time
July 2007