Brush in hand, the plain scroll spread wide; ink splashed across the painting, a lifetime condensed into a foot of silk.
Savoring wine, grinding the ink, I write of the old one once more, brows etched across three lifetimes.
A carefree tap on the table, and a foot-square space stirs the ancient ideas sealed in dust.
Now I retrace the past and turn the pages, listening as the storyteller speaks with eyes closed.
Chronicle of the Bygone World
[Readers who cannot handle a bad ending should proceed with caution.]
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