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It was at eight years old my Sundays became the gloomiest day of the week. I did not know what to say. My words became an echo of the past and the future. The present certainly no longer existed after that one fateful Sunday. My tongue lost its words when the heavens collided with the earth and I, most innocent of beings, caught in between. I had no defenses, for they were unknown to me. I had no words for there were only faltering cries that came out of my mouth. I have managed to build walls of unprecedented thickness, but I can almost still hear them when I allow myself to be still and succumb to the word: melancholy.
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