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  • Outside of a dingy pub stands a solitary swing.
    The wind gently tug on its ropes making it move ever so slightly.
    It stands there in the rain. It stands there in the sun.
    Under the white innocence of powder snow and under the dully yellow oversight of the streetlamps.

    The ropes and plank always held that void with its levitated smile.
    Offering me company when my wish to go home had been answered with a popsicle.
    And those nights we sat in the solidarity that springs from being the sole inhabitants of that space and time.
    Blanketed in the fluorescent darkness of the night, and the warm voices from beyond the door to the pub.

    Time did as time does.
    That which were, stopped being.
    The pub closed its doors.
    The swing got taken down.
    I grew up.

    But at the apex of my prefrontal cortex.
    That swing stands, still.
    Smiling and solitary.
    In gentle motion from the tugs of a calm wind.
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