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It is Pau-kala. The branch is still bare. The old tree's leaves will never return - they are a memory and a song. But there is a sapling, there is a sapling right beside that old tree, and it's trembling with promise. There will be a spring again.
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There are moths outside, ready to die for a light they crave but which is denied to them, shielded from them [...] Sometimes, in the midst of all I have been given, I watch the moths in us all. Everybody has a light which they think they cannot live without.
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It's like somebody stuffed him in a barrel full of moonshine-proof cluelessness and then left him there to get pickled in it while it fermented into malice.
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If you really want to be a writer, nobody can stop you - and if you don't, nobody can help you.
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You have never felt the weight of disappointing love or of failing to live up to expectations. The only thing you've ever been is lonely by yourself – you have no idea how desperate it is to be lonely in the midst of people who love you, and whom you would have done anything to make happy...
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But still they turn from it, all of them, and bat their wings against their own impossible dreams.