strange


walking through a sunlit meadow, the colors of wildflowers swirling around your feet, bright blues and soft greens; through the air little pinpricks of light dance, and in the middle of this meadow, a wooden plank stands resolutely, having been stuck in the ground some time ago. Barely weathered, the corners are smooth, but otherwise the plank is not impressive. Its significance is that it’s just there and not in the roofing of the nearby farmhouse, so pretty and cozy, or otherwise anymore; its existence is just strange.

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