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How many cups of coffee mark the passage of a life? How many moments of quiet reflection in hidden cafés, where thoughts drift like soft whispers, do we cherish?
How many words written in haste, and yet with meaning? How many lines read and reread, imprinting themselves upon the soul?
How many sketches, faint but lasting, capture the essence of fleeting moments? How, then, do we measure a life well lived, if not in the subtle beauty of these small, sacred things?
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WrenX]
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