It started with the drawing. Hiding lonely in the bush, in the middle of the heavy bustle of rush hour. Years back I was rushing to my friends house with my beloved drawing, when the wind grabbed it and ripped it from my hands. It flew high and far, but however fast I ran the wind was faster. Just lying in the bush, waiting to be found. Such a small thing, with such a large past. Crying with sadness I departed from my search, leaving to my home. Not daring to go to my party. I spent so much time on that drawing, just for it to be taken, robbed, forgotten. Without the care it required it was shriveling, dying, but worst of all, forgotten.
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