To sit in the sun is a simple, yet revolutionary action for the self.
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I am starting to believe that progress is a relative term:
expansive cities vs slowly engineering a perfect potato
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There is a crumpled paper beneath the heel of the disproportionate statue.
I imagine it to be a love letter or a treasure map
AND IT REALLY IS (drum roll please) :
[this is when I put my notebook back in my breast pocket, walk over to the statue, my my observation then return to my bench to write its true form]
a soiled and grease stained sandwich wrapping paper
I think I have found a perfect place to hide prizes.
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