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It was the kind of dull morning that you’d thank to crack your spine. He sat in his perch by the window, his hands copying over the documents before him by the light that managed to enter through the spattered glass. Ink ran between the creases of his palms when he went home each night and marked him as a beggar.

As he lifted his head to steal a glance at the street, a small shape caught his eye. It was a lovely little smear of a girl, paused just outside his work station window. Her long dark hair seemed as if it had been painted down her back in one long stroke, and her eyes, the same hue of his ink, stayed fixated upon some point beyond his view. He took her in shamelessly - those lips like two fresh petals off a newly sheared rose, a little upturned nose like it disapproved of the dinge of this street.

Had she been sent for him? To narrow his vision to a gaze existent only to admire her? Surely, surely, for what a pleasurable sight she was...but in a moment she had gone.

The copier went back to his work.

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