The slanting light from the late autumn sun shone through the holes, thin bright needle-like rays, shooting through the tiny pinpricks. It was beautiful. Why weren’t all pages this beautiful? But then, looking more closely, you grew confused. You were expecting the page to be blank and white and empty, but the words were still there. You thought you’d liberated them, thought they would have fled by now, but instead, there they were, all those words and letters, neatly aligned and serving their sentences, while the page cried out in pain. It was too much. How could words be so servile? So
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