He was born in an in-between
place, a valley with old and rounded hills behind, sharp and eager mountains
before, a kind of negative space of not-geography. It was the kind of place life
largely passed by, with wars that broke behind the weathered hills and storms
that raged beyond the peaks.
In the sheltered valley there was
idyll and ease. Days, months and years slipped by his defenses, unchallenged.
And crept up on him as he stood by the window, watching the distant lightning.
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