Gunpowder

The skyline looks pretty in the morning like this. There’s something so intimate and otherworldly about the ribbons of color across the sky, the sway of tree leaves in the gentle winds. The trees are starting to die, or maybe just the branches. Trees never really die, plant for strength and time, and something about that stirs inside of Leslie. He once thought that he was a tree, but now he feels more like a flower. A dandelion. Something small and unwavering, yet so easily trampled.

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