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In by Lucía on February 1, 2011 at 6:24 pm

It got quiet, the way it sometimes got when you were allowed to play in your own room as a child, and your parent could excusably put you to the periphery to take care of an important call.  But this time, truly, no other is present as the light crossing in from the windows grows more dim, and the shadows in the room slowly invert through shades of gray.  The air seems to move with the light, becoming perhaps heavier and more still, but the sense of play, of malleability remains, a book resting on the floor by your side.


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