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Crossing An old man whose face said that he was tired of crossing city streets, slowly made his way across another one in front of us. He had only made it half way when the traffic started once again on its endless push to nowhere, and paused his progress then and there on a safety isle not two feet wide; a prisoner of his aging stride. A certain sadness graced his face that comes from feeling out of place. Yet patience knows, more than haste, what is precious, what is waste. And when the present came to rest, he continued on his quest by taking every step with care, as if the past were waiting there. |
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