Donostia, País Basco A tale is a trap, taken solo. Once upon it, the shot must be watered down, from an old disbeliever, who faces the siren lyrics under the hood of apathy, to a newborn, the real prey of cuckoo, that hears the spell, now hollow of meaning. Harmless. Tight stitched pages sew the minds of herds that, yet, float as a hint. A steady index finger-points the text, keeping the words in line. A man passes by, a reader. His son's son, on one arm, his father's book, on the other. They look ever so happy, after all.

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