I imagine a room with many shelves,upon which, upon entering,I know are stacked the relics of a past.The orange juice of labor.The stories of a life.They are tidied upin little slate cubbies and labelledand sorted bywhat’s inside.
In this room compiled pages cataloguethese objectscrossed in time.
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The plaza was bustling. Lena stopped by a map kiosk where she had SUN pull the location of 27B55. Left here, now right. 200 feet ahead. You’ve arrived at farm 27B55. Sometimes Lena found SUN annoying. Some of these features suck, she thought. They never get the directions thing right. She shut...