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Weekly Contest #330
The first time Errow left was most definitely on a Friday, that much I know. I do remember looking down at the startled woods in the distance, a figure flickering through them. There was no figure, of course, it was just there in the same sense that he was— an obscene, fragile, absence on a cluttered background. Who was he to me by this point? Well, he was probably something I should have been more afraid of. But then he was an enigmatic force of familiarity with this undidactic, uncanny fire that made my transparency feel acceptable. I hop...
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