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Weekly Contest #286
1990, November 19:There would be an old, dying man standing against the stream of the crowded street. Slowly eroding, carried away by the chaos. The old man’s eyes would wander into the sunset that melted into the city, his eyes ordinary, tired and lonely. And when he finally leaves the world, he will become only a small wisp of dust that will be stepped into the ground. There wouldn’t be any flowers nor would there be the smoke of an incense, there wouldn't be a small plate of fruit nor would there be the dribble of alcohol and tears. His n...
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