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IT IS A MAGICAL YET JARRING SIGHT
This is a hard country. Lora ran her fingers over the first line of the tome. Invisible fumes burden the air, that make the body tired and the mind murky. The words were her father's. His curly handwriting slithered across the pages. Despite the rain that falls on us every day of every month, the land is barren. Despite all attempts, nothing will grow in the copper red mire. The once white paper had long turned gray. This entry could be as old as the settlement itself, Lora thought to herself. The idea bewildered her. She pushed an auburn strand of hair behind her ear and brought her face closer to the page. And so there is nothing here but for the colossal, white trees. They cover the land, as far as the eye can see. Their rugged trunks tower over all living things; their needles so many they hide the skies. When you burn their wood, the fire is blue.
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