I opened an old notebook and a page fell out. It was something I copied down a long time ago, scribbled among other scribbles copied down a long time ago. It was a poem, written by someone named Pixie Foudre:

Browsing the dim back corner
Of a musty antique shop
Opened an old book of poetry
Angels flew out from the pages
I caught the whiff of a soul
The ink seemed fresh as today
Was that voices whispering?
The tree of the paper still grows.

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