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Feast of Leaves

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They come with dreams. It hungers. They come with knowledge. It feeds. They come as endless changing stories without beginning or end. They are empty layers upon layers. Something changes. There is only one. A tasteless being of others' hopes and desperation, the smallest of desserts. There is a cessation.

A blank page.

Light. A new weight. It begins again with a prologue. There is the faint scent it knew tinged with something more.

It begins with one, with two. They come together; they are one twisted together in darkness and sorrow. They are the center-piece. They are the first, middle and final course. It feeds.

One comes with the taste of dreams and history. She is familiar; she is not the same. She is a leaf from the same tree. Her touches are that of feathers. It knows her hunger just the same. She feeds as it feeds.

One comes with the taste of loyalty and pride. Hers is a mingled story of fears and desires. She is leaf's sword and her shield. Their stories are neither one nor two, but their paths entwine. It feeds.

One comes with the taste of song and sorrow. Poetry reflects hidden meanings in different eyes. He is a tale of secrets and spiralling hopes. Only it knows the depths of this meal. It feeds.

One comes with the taste of darkness and starlight. A tale broken, rewritten and broken once more into something new. He is a story of midnight pierced by morning. A shadow in the light. It feeds.

One comes with the taste of blood and shadow. She is a hidden feast for no story goes without consumption. There is a crack, a split, two pulls and an end yet unknown. It feeds.

One comes with the taste of sunlight and open skies. She is a tale taking all and all are taken. She is a story of morning pierced by midnight. A light in the shadow. It feeds.

They come one by one their stories weaving into a greater whole. They are each taken. They are each known.

It ends with one, with two. They come together; they are one twisted together in light and hope. They are the center-piece. They are the first, middle and final course. It feeds no more.

They leave two by two by one. They are gone and they remain, shelved between its walls. It holds each and every one.

All stories come to an end. All stories begin anew. It will feed again.