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On my way down Kutner I spot the old ladys with cracked hands who sit every Sunday and chat over tea and donuts. I take a left on Marshall Ave and around the corner passing through Weston. As I see the construction
workers carving wood plates imagining the splinters they went home with that day.
Lastly I'm here. The market. As I lay My gallon jug on the counter I see the young board cashier who seems indifferent to my smile and thanks as I leave the shop.