One idle afternoon, you walk out of the house and onto the balcony. It's windy outside, not much. The sky is colorless and empty. You sit down, sitting on the cardboard box on the balcony, you can't sit very firmly. You have a piece of paper in your hand, torn from a collection of poems you no longer use. This title page has no words, no signature, no seal. You set this piece of paper on fire, the wind blows it, and it burns up quickly. Your eyes are a little wet from the flames. Do not. You don't have such a piece of paper, you don't have a lighter. You are standing on the balcony with your phone in your hand.
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