I wear my past around my shoulders as a fine, but worn, cloak. Don’t be fooled by my cloak’s appearance, I have a three piece underneath.
– Hubert Martin
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- And though they fell as ashes, their shadows drifted as leaves. – Hubert Martin
- She was poetry written in pen, scribbled and scrawled again and again. – Hubert Martin
- She speaks in heartbeats and the rises of her chest, words forever seared in thoughts that will never rest. – Hubert Martin
- He sang softly, less with words and more with thought. She cradled his head, stitching together his fragmented heart. – Hubert Martin
- That last bit of hope always lingered as a stubborn thread. Every time I would try to cut it I would feel it… a pulse. My pulse. My blood is hope. – Hubert Martin
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- She was the half-whispers born from half-thoughts, the half-breaths of dying half-hearts. – Hubert Martin
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- It was a burden on all her muscles. A hollow deeper than her bones. She braced herself though, she knew why Atlas stood so tall. – Hubert Martin
- And they danced with laughter and tears. They swung each other round and round, the first and last time in years. – Hubert Martin
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