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Lost wonder.
My back windows overlook a patch of land with trees and bushes and grass, framed by terraced houses (just 3/4 floors depending how you count, around 5 to 8 house numbers on each side, 8 flats per number). Very pleasant all year round. (In summer I don't even see any other house from some angle, due to the leaves.)

I thought it a shame that nearly all snow had melted, but now it's back. The trees, and bushes, the grass and paths all have a thick lair of white on it, very bright especially after dark.

Looking out the kitchen window with the light turned off, it looks like sprung from a fairy tale, or those fairy tale films made some time in the 70s or 80s somewhere in Eastern Europe. (Czechoslovakia? Not sure.) They even had a kind of series set in the land of fairy tales.

There's one tree especially, just a few meters from my windows, surrounded by grass and a path around both, a hedge bordering the other side of the path, that draws the eye. A tree that one could imagine to have a personality, or magic.

And it makes me think about the wonder and mystery. It's there and I have it right outside my window, but it's not really there, and I don't really have it. The wonder lost, and only the wish for it remaining.

I look outside, and want... a story set in that. With the wonder and mystery, and perhaps even adventure. But I doubt even writing one myself could quite get it back.

What's left is the view, all year round, and the tree whose branches I can see from my bed, and looking at it, not quite wish a good night before going to sleep.


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