The following paragraph opens Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn; this novel has long inspired me to pick up my pen.
"The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless color of sea foam, but rather the color of snow falling on a moonlit night. But her eyes were still clear and unwearied, and she still moved like a shadow on the sea."
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