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It’s been 33 years, or 5 days. And I still have not learn anything. The sun comes up and down, the rooftops shine and rot, the landscape of the morning jog changes, first the forest, then the ugly park, and now it screams of present. 

Nothing seems to change within me, except that every time I look in the mirror my face is another. A good friend used to say that I was different every Monday. Was I always changing? Will I ever just remain still?

We, like smoke are made of past and present. We, like smoke that’s efervescent.

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