In their youth, they were all fluidity, stretching and snapping. Bubble and chewing, they come from all walks of life. Most opt for traditional burial, tucked back into their wrappers and solemnly trashed. The daredevils leap to the sidewalk, where they might perform one last heroic stretch, clinging to shoe-rubber: a feat for the ages.
Some cannot bear to depart, however, fearing both fame and ignominy. They cling to the undersides of desks and chairs, hunkered down and growing ever more inflexible, muttering in bitter nostalgia until they fall inevitably silent, waiting for their false immortality to fail at last.
That Pot Or Vase I Think
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