The sun shines harder if that’s possible, from one end of an island to another, brandishing an impossible amount of trees. Puddles smell of sterile name brand Band-Aids and rusting tin foil. I walk slower, but I twisted my ankle and it still aches every morning. Bed sheets like bandages. The subway stairs was an early casualty. The sharp rays of sun the second.
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some of the loveliest cynicism ive read.