Young Goodman Brown
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Sitting alone with a cup of coffee, she thought. Looking around and around, with pencil in hand, she thought. Struggling inside with a decision to make and a letter to write, she suffered. This always happened. Never found the exact words to say or write. She always wanted to let others know about her feelings, but never knew how. After one or two hours of thinking, Marie used to go to bed, living on her desk a sharpened pencil and a white paper. Then in the middle of the night, images and symbols used to come to her in dreams. In the morning, she used to take the pencil and fill the paper, with mysteries. For Marie it was like magic, because everything she wrote about seemed to be something, but always ended being another...