Your planet needs a successor

 

Our figures are sunlight. We scamper down the the boulevard, and your hair is perfect. Each time our boots touch the brick, the now is ours. The ocean is shimmering. The bricks are brilliantly red. Red like ice cream that is melted just enough. Red like sunlight. This day could be folded into itself over and over, or compressed into intricate geometric mignardises, and it would still be illuminated.

 

 

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