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By distraction, my leave from her light had tense speed running through me, like a irate craft or heady nun, she sped toward the light. Had they known either of the thoughts, I felt unsure they could multiply and I set with increased importance, a letter to help the form take hold. These are dead scraps in the distance, a scrape to the window sill or a tapping on the glass to tell these times thier details or to escape winters grasp as a soul with righteous indignation and resolve. I am only bringing it forward to march between these halls. The sped light of eight or more candles and the space in the lair told us the other thought you cloud.

It is important to note that the discussion was of a gentle tapping or slow rapping on the window, sir. It was keeping me up at night. The candle flickered in the morning as the silent street beckoned and I surely wrote the letter for the silent night that came upon the research brought for water-marked new papers a notary public knew and could bring towards these lights on a harmonious brilliant surface. Because the dream is over and I have to believe in mind, I assure you that these lights bring my surface up and make my place of this design.

The neighbor looks in first condescendingly and then twice with deep regard. I am not the person he assumed me to be. I am not tapping at his window. The connection between us is that at last I am assured that this tapping is not his handiwork. It is from a branch in the wind swinging on an invisible tree that is gently rapping at the window. It is keeping us up at night.

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