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I’m never content. Always moving. I’ve noticed my son is this way too. Being on the street is search for meaning. I dove into the wreck of this humanity. I’ve become an unwitting existentialist.
Sometimes I get close to whatever it is. Sometimes I just have to laugh at the world and myself. What were they thinking? What was I thinking?
A million people on the street and a million stories. But, I’m not after their’s. Only how does it intertwine with mine?