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I wanted to tell him there was stars in his body, but he’d probably have slapped me, and then himself just for the sheer embarrassment. But I did tell him his eyes were like the Wending Wood, and I refrained from telling him he himself was not unlike its denizens, of which there were many, in varied demeanor and form. Perhaps he was less fond of touch than was average, but one does not need be reading a book to know that they have enjoyed it, does not need be within their home to know that they love it dearly. That's permanence. Memory. Fondness.

We were a crossing of arteries and magic at a time we needed it most, and while it may have seemed odd at first, I have found that in this world there are many things unexpected and strange and radiant, and he was one of them.

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