Three men of a descent different of mine, sit around me on the subway. All wearing Merano linen, they speak in their native tongue. They have a debate swaying between passion and indifference, I wonder what they’re saying

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Keeping a journal is great until you look back at a phase in life that was shared with someone who currently isn’t around.

I guess that's a serious question I have, am I supposed to look back at what I wrote in my journals? Seems a bit contradictory to the idea of letting go of the past.

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My thoughts often feel like gold flakes falling onto a melting pavement. Swallowed by the industrial and refined. I find nothing wrong with this, and I do not think ill of it. It is part of the process I suppose, to have your tidbits of beauty overwhelmed by the pressures around you. That does not remove the existence of those gold flakes, but I often wonder what would happen if the pavement solidified. Would the gold flakes pile up until it too became the pavement? Or would they just blow away from a faint gust of wind?

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