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Contrived of quilt-squares called pain and beauty, a person is a lifeless thing without
the touch of a poor man named Jesus. Welcome to the attic. There are boxes upon boxes here. Sunlight traces
a dusty path from an octagonal window down to the floor. An old piano hides under piles of artifacts in the corner.
It is a place that seems dead unless you look a little harder. Life will explode if you let it. I hope it will
mean something different to both of us. That would indeed tell us something about the nature of the mystery of life.
~aw
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