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I can feel them sneaking glances at me from across the room but they don’t swivel their heads and fix their giant owl eyes on me until I get closer.

“We will share with you the Wisdom of the Ages!” one of them chirps.

“For less than 30 Euros!” the other adds.

“How much less?” I ask, even though I can read their price tag.

“One cent!” they chirp in unison before bursting into hooting laughter.

The shopkeeper thanks me when I buy them and appears to enjoy muffling their exuberant cries about going on “a box-journey” with tissue paper as she packs them up for me.

I put them on the mantelpiece when I get them home. They criticize my taste in furniture and complain that the fireplace makes their feet too warm.

I contemplate returning them and then they start doling out the Wisdom.

They punctuate each mind-expanding revelation with hoots and bad jokes but I’m too busy looking for a pen to care.

 

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

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