On small beginnings

And the last puff of the day-wind brought from the unseen villages, the scent of damp wood-smoke, hot cakes, dripping undergrowth, and rotting pine-cones. That is the true smell of the Himalayas, and if once it creeps into the blood of a man, that man will at the last, forgetting all else, return to the hills to die.
– Rudyard Kipling.

——–

Darling,
Drop me a message.
I miss you terribly.

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Author: pecsbowen

reader.philosopher.writer

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