A gentle breath drifted over the grassy clearing. The ends of the straws softening into fine hair that the late sun fell upon gave me the impression of a pinkish haze clinging all around me (full of allergens, I must add, in memory of my poor handkerchiefs, which made me put down my brushes more often than I wanted to). Stripes of light crossed the clearing one by one. The grass was getting pinker and the light was getting shorter as the sun was getting lower and almost disappeared behind the trees.
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