THE house of stories now stands in its weary state, Sphinx-like, looking out into the dust of years gone by, taking in eddies of breeze coming in from the sea into its portals, through abandoned rooms and across unswept floors. Going through the sinews of this old house, doors ajar and inscriptions on walls; books curled in edges in overhead nestling places of old stories come whistles and whispers from the wind, as if in its daily routine of coming back, is chanting names that have gone beyond times and are now past recall.
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