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It was quiet. The river was still. Fireworks reflecting off of it's glassy surfacing. The light from sparks and moonlight allowing just enough light to write in the old leather journal. To stain the crinkled, yellow pages with black. There's no magic left in the world, so I've heard. They've just never looked in the right place.

maybe just a tad too high... I know these dads I'm married to one of them, and I just love the totally calm look on the baby's face like "ho hum I'm flying again, still fun after the 50th time."