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There once lived a boy who sang so beautifully that he was accepted directly into the semi-finals of Voice of Okremia.
An old painter had found the boy outside his house, standing in a corner near a broken street lamp, crooning a rhyme of rain and thunder, oblivious to the pouring and roaring around him. Standing by the window, listening to the boy, the old painter’s mind was awash with a thunderous rain. He shook himself out of it; he had to go outside and get the boy inside. Feed him and get him into warm clothes.
An hour later, the boy sat on the edge of the painter’s bed, looking around the house as though it were a miracle. They were all unfinished paintings: silhouettes of a sprawling city in a pale yellow, a stick figure of a man holding a cigar, fitful strokes of charcoal, a red…
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