Posted in Short Story / Fiction

Interwoven

Sometimes I feel we are woven from the same piece of cloth, battered old and always removing the stains from the scarlet fibers that runs inside of us entangled by those intricate patterns that it is hard to remove what they bind together, the love passion and emotions. The ragged fabrics are made of scars, millions of them, some physical and most imaginary, every one of which have a magical realism attached to it.

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