To the boy in black on Burnside wearing sunglasses and a hat: Thank you. You handed me two flowers while I was walking down the street. They were small enough to fit in my palm. You said something about carrying them for four blocks, waiting to give them to someone. For some reason you gave them to me. I think it might have just been because you were sick of carrying them around. It doesn't matter. Thank you. I was leaving work. I was tired. I was stuck in a quicksand of self-pity, meditating on a broken heart and pondering my own unloveability, feeling sad and stupid. They were just two little petunias, nothing special: one a coral color and the other lavender. In the sun their petals had a subtle iridescence, like they were underlaid with silver. They were common. They were beautiful. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
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