| «Ever changing, growing, and searching through stretches of time beyond life
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| and death
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| This is the journey that every soul makes
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| My journey always brings me to the place between wake and sleep
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| A landscape of memories where you and I meet again and again
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| Even in the darkest night, in the heaviest storm, I always find my way back to
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| you
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| When you remember, please come back to the place we both know.»
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| Reading her words again that night, the man falls asleep to find himself
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| walking inside of the same tunnel. |
| He paces fiercely with his arms outstretched
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| as if he is pushing against the wind. |
| The air smells of burnt pine and evening
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| frost as the end is near in sight. |
| When he guides himself out into the light,
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| his hands brush against a rough surface, much taller and wider than he can
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| reach. |
| What lies on the outside of the tunnel is a fully-grown tree surrounded
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| by a circle of white stones. |
| He drops to his knees, touching its roots and
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| turning over each stone in disbelief
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| Recovering a lost memory is like a dam breaking open, releasing all the water
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| that had been barricaded from flowing. |
| As he sits here, every moment with her
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| in these woods resurfaces within him. |
| He holds a stone in his hands and weeps
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| as he remembers their promise |