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Letter A

In the morning I wrote a letter to a married Ukrainian man. And his kids. And myself :

"For centuries being sad was something that pushed millions of men to build temples for their art, for stories they've created, for beauty they've tried to immortalized. Men who cherished their skill and fought for it without being frightened. The sadness was a fuel. 
The smell of leaking misery is sour and uncomfortable. Almost like the feeling of pleasure in front of people who are weeping. Almost the feeling that you get after somebody tells you a dirty joke in a burial. Obviously, you want it to end but it's not so easy to kill an abstract you gave birth to. This abstract misery, sadness, sorrow is mellow to you. Hugging your shoulders, your tired head with warm wet wings as a mother bird hiding her heirs from a sunlight. You get even more tired.
Men create when they are sad. However, there are exceptions. I hope you will not be it. Stagnating, static and making everything look worthless doing. That's all.
When sadness reach a certain point above the take-it-seriously line, when it's mentioned too much, when it has its roots dug deep it becomes just a ridiculously let out laughter. It's funny 'cuz it's sad. This laughter has to be praised and reminiscent more often than the sadness it was caused from. It fades but the misery comes back.

I hope your family is doing fine. The best wishes."

My name is Ugne and it means fire. Suck it up.

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