The pages of the Book of Shadows
are turning rapidly in the wind,
in the gathering Storm.






   The girl is stretching her arms above her head, yawning. The days, the time today flowed slowly, as if days had gone by without anybody knowing. The girl froze, looking down. Her right hand moved down, opening the lower drawer, grabbing the other book, the second Book of Shadows, hesitatingly opening it, reading it.
   There are two books, she read. One written by the witch and one writing itself. They're different and they're the same. Though the one written by the Shadow will always be more detailed, more clear, more clouded.
   She turned to the last pages, not any longer the same last page as she had read earlier.
   The nebulous witch, still hurting, still raw, is sitting in her poorly chosen sanctum, reading about herself sitting in her poorly chosen sanctum, reading about herself.
   And she is yawning no longer.










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The Book

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