She told me everything she had learned about love, she had learned from these paintings. Everything about movement, from the statues. Everything about death, from the people's faces, looking at the paintings and the statues.
"Love looks like an accidental brushstroke of yellow in a green forest, you can fully understand movement only in its absence, and death is a shadow on the face of an 11-year-old girl with uneven pigtails and mismatched socks."
-from the only short story I've ever written but hopefully not the only short story I'll ever write
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