The park is the first stage of pain in life. Where dreams and hopes and joy die faster than ants fried by young and ruthless psychopaths armed with spherical glass. The first place others tell you no. And yes, at times, a beautiful place as well… Everything in excess is ugly: the park, the sun, the moon—also tears, joy, sorrow, and especially time. The second, a tiresome unit of time: short and incessant, it titters at a supernatural pace. In excess, they create Minutes: older, but hardly better. Too short to complete a proper thought, minutes lack a graceful break—Hours are older still, but 24 of anything is lavish too. There are many days and so, they have more chances than the rest to be beautiful, and even so, their successes are few… A week is lucky every time, but rare are beautiful weeks and fleeting too. Together the months act as beasts of burden. Twelve oxen that carry the ugliest son of a bitch—years: mean, hideous, painful and protracted, more violent than all the rest, fatal en masse… …Beautiful time of any order is hard to come by. To share a beautiful time is near impossible, save with an unknown stranger who may or may not exist… But the park exists. It has existed longer than most and hardly looks itself because of it. The park is a victim of excess time. The park is ugly because of time but manages to persist because it avoids all reflections… And as the time passes the pond soaks up the moon. The sun has set if not on me then on the shadows beneath the park’s familiar Trees.
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