Not Even Nostalgic
I biked down the old streets, an attempt to conjure past sentiments masked behind the swings, trees, alleys, and street lamps: the beacon bells of ice cream trucks , the shrill voices of children laughing. I was dishearten, the road to memory lane is impassable, buried beneath the procession of time as a fallen leaf mars and perish . Ironically, I still find solace in the midst of dissolution, like the erosion of canyons, the result will be beautiful.
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