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Write six-word stories

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White line, green grass, impure booze.

Indeed I thought I feel fine,
until demon's returned to my mind.
My vision searching for my muse,
centuries ago, to stay she refused.
Still I can see her around,
everyday I walk in this town.
My ears hear her voice sound,
Till the day, I die down.
 
Your positive is always your negative

(^no relation to the post above)
 
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