Looking down I see the traces of those who came before me. Like an archeologist pondering his dig, I wonder what they mean. In the middle of a skateboard park, in the middle of suburbia, I laugh at my own pretensions. But then I realize that every mark is important. Each scratch tells a story. Each crack is an opening. I marvel at the beauty of a random universe.
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Yesterday I was thinking about the 4th of July which is pretty obvious since it was July 4th. Our little hamlet is the host of a parade and art fair every Independence Day. The town dresses up once a year, puts on a show for the day and then goes back to sleep again. This has been going on for as long as I can remember.