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A candle burned on the table, a candle burned... he whispered to himself — the beginning of something confused, formless; he hoped that it would take shape of itself. But nothing more came to him.
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A candle burned on the table, a candle burned... he whispered to himself — the beginning of something confused, formless; he hoped that it would take shape of itself. But nothing more came to him. by : Boris Pasternak