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The neon becomes something
like a firefly. The insect is
running away from
someone at his home. The night turns
shades of anger into
freezing and then warmth.

It’s an unmovable icon.

The daytime knows the
sight of rocks, piled up
and spilling out. The boy
with the brown shirt asks
his mommy.

‘We gotta move it?’

The class eats lunch together, but
the sight of the seas and
the wind that
blows with it will push up their
plates.

The sight is like the sun.

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