There was a time when life ink dripping from his fingers, dancing elves at his side, playing with her curls, she whispered rhymes. He wrote poems and gave them smiles. Grew and became literary muses, lovers of writing serious and committed. They brought books, newspapers and fleeting fame. Now, abandoned in a nursing home, recalls the innocence of those days. Even if your hands tremble and I do not have curls, leprechauns dance at his side tickling. 
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