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a home in my mind.
Deep in the heart of tree covered mountains a city exists. Here, the sun never shines - the canopy of the forest is so thick that no one has ever reached its surface. [Does a universe exist without obvious phase?]
The tall trees bear the fruit of life; exploited by intricate systems of dark log cabins with thick-silled windows that are connected by tiny footbridges made of millions of quaint sticks embroidered with handrails of twine. A dull, orange-yellow light shines from all of the wooden windows provided by gooey candles shining from unseen places. [Does the source of light actually exist if it's not viewable?]
The homes are small, but space is not needed in such an understanding environment. A faint fog rests across the tiny village, making it wreak of nostalgia and soggy bark. Humble beings walk around through their daily lives not minding what's below them. Rarely do we leave the trees.
I weave myself through my life paying no attention to how I exist. Unable to cope with anything beyond my realm, I dwell within my shaded oak world without any redeemable worries. [sometimes, it's hard for me to pay attention.]
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