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A Not Uncommon Scene


Kvasir
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   The light of midday fell upon the grassy knoll. Cars followed the road meandering upon the small hill; the road itself wispily followed the intermittently flat ground and found themselves all derivative of the Midwest's central vein. The soft yellow light of a summer's noon glinted off cars and asphalt and the smell of recently - but not fresh - cut grass drew itself upon the place. The whole world seemed to expand out into either the wind and vague smell of smoke or the concreteness and casualness of the buildings about, depending on the observer's focus. A car pulled lazily into the front of a storefront, the unending world seemed to take on an unsaturated hue, a graininess and familiar feeling applying itself to life. The soft taunting of cars and trucks in the distance contrasted the colorfully dressed jesters who produced themselves from the vehicle. Among themselves was their only tribe. The men wandered and made their own adventure on the sidewalk, seeing the world equally as flamboyant as their garb, even with the lack of such an element. The eyes of a child and the momentum of a rocket, still they march in their merry troupe through their own world, prideful in the surprise of others. 

   A voice, that held this same familiar element these knolls and the grain of the world, droned on. The tone of the voice, with it's fundamentally sarcastic roots, and it's strange quality of being from the recent past and from the present. The voice still moved on, looking upon the jesters with the tired eyes of the asphalt and the care of the wind. It all fades away, though never to it's own holes, only to time. 

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This really says a lot about our society.

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This really says a lot about our society.

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