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Ghostfire rages in the library, leaves paper untouched but consumes all the words. They light up, utter themselves, vanish from the page,
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Onlookers: "It was as if you - had somehow shone an acid trip through a floodlight. E- even the pavement made you cry with transcendence-"
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That morning, the librarians return to empty pages. Tiny white roots sprout from them. Somehow, the smell of forest now permeates the aisles
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