Forgetting the ghosts that I once belonged to, I leave them in sunflower fields. Walking 20 miles south From here, I realise the world is made of color. The river between Grey and sunflower-yellow is thirty-six thousand feet deep; varying between Colours of you and me. Leaving the cemeteries of grey I find myself somewhere in-between dark and light~ No other colour can describe this; except maybe the world
The simple truth is that authors like making people squirm. If this weren't the case, all novels would be filled completely with cute bunnies having birthday parties. — Brandon Sanderson, Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians
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