Subjects:
On the misty morning of September, yellow leaves fell as the water crippled the path of
the rocks that lay between the erratic waves that stung the water like a cacophonous bee.
The lake was surrounded by a huge park named Hoard’s path. The first time I entered the
park a strong aversion came upon me. The mystery of the park held heavily on me and I
wondered about the caricature of the waves which puzzled me about the dependability of
the waves staying where they were and not blowing me into the lake like a dog that
was being pulled in because of the coercion of the waves. When I reached a consensus
with my friends about going there in a week we were all exited about exploring the place.
My friend knowing of this place warned we about the daunting stories he had heard abut
. . .
came everything looked so lethargic as if the place had lost it’s mood. On Sunday we
headed down the prodigious slope of the Hoard’s path. The fresh scent of the air gave me
a scrupulous outlook on what was to come ahead for us. I referred to it as a
capricious place always changing its mind as if its watching us. This showed that even the darkest
places had some love coming with it. I was
thinking how such a dark place could make me feel at home. They said that some people were
building a mall there so they were to replace Hoard’s path by a mall. When we came back the next day
we realized why the place had lost it’s mood. As we reached the lake to refresh ourselves we
felt that someone was watching us. Heroes are born but legends never die. The uneasy levity of this situation from my friends
gave me a troubled look. when we came back, there were many
bulldozers there. So for many month’s we
came to Hoard’s path for it had become our favorite place.
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