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发表于 2025-3-5 16:22:09
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Salt crusted pages tell of decades watching the emerald waves. November 7th, 1952: "Storm's breath snuffed the beacon thrice tonight. Rewound the clockwork mechanism by match-glow, fingers trembling like aspen leaves." June entries smell of dried seaweed, describing mermaid-shaped clouds and a cargo ship's horn echoing through fog thicker than wool. By 1988, the handwriting shakes – "They say satellites make lighthouses obsolete. But what machine can taste the iron tang of approaching squalls? Who'll warn the gulls when circuits rust?" The final page holds a pressed crimson feather, its barbs still whispering stories of hurricanes weathered. |
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