Sometimes I let the night walk backwards, running back to a starting line from dozens of seasons before us. There she was at seventeen, a silky blonde mess of a story and I wrapped my world around that feeling. A feeling that struck my imagination like lightning and created a paper thunderstorm of Bic on Hilroy. Five years past, five years later. That world long ago spun into oblivion, but I continue on my pursuit for a fairy tale that ages beyond its storybook roots.

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