There is magic in the world. It is known through little things. Passing in a moment. Disbelieved. Gone like smoke, yet striking twice like lightning. Something has been ignited. It burns. It remembers. It is a woman's eyes. You cannot plan for things like these, for these are things which swiftly flee. You wait again where magic happened, as if it were a function of place. You wait in vain, forever ready, thirsting for another glance.
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