Sometimes I think he felt like it was his resting place, the kind of place he wanted to see before he left for good. He felt accepted, because the trees and atmosphere enveloped him like a blanket, protecting him from the cruel world he pretended to understand. The trees didn't move away from him when he was close, the room didn't fall silent when he approached, there were no harsh words or people belittling him for being himself. He had already made up his mind. He was in his last days, his soul melting in euphoria as he drove away from the sick town he grew up in.
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des