Living the dream

Photo by Donald Teel on Unsplash

I am thirty, I think to myself. The couture of the world is less beckoning. Paris is less Paris, Spotify less Spotify, and my neighbor’s flaxen toy poodle seems stuffy. It feels as though the colors are bleached off from the surfaces of people, foods and sunsets. Birds, I admit, remain equally alive — and classicist architecture.

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