Whimsical
There is a place, far from here, where the wind whispers rhymes hewn from the words of God. Where the rocks gleam with the spit of man, massed piles of granite and obsidian rejects, strewn about like marbles from the sky. A place where all the birds are stripped bare of feathers and limbs and crawl through the grass like beaked-worms. The trees all bleed milky dew with a scent of berries mixed with old blood, attracting insects that stick and die, wings twitching in the wind.
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