

Sycamore TreeShe took a seat under her favorite sycamore tree, unsheathed her graphite saber, bared her parchment, and began to write. Her pencil scrawled and scratched its silent, sacred hymn amidst the splatters and speckles of light upon the page,Sycamore Tree
falling down through the mid-afternoon shade. The summer breeze blew waves through the polished grass.
And so, she sat meditative in the dirt and grass, cradled in the nurturing arms of her sycamore tree and mused on existence in the restorative shade. Holding still the paper with her left hand, scribing with her right, she poured out her rum
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