It was raining. I was stoned, staring at the mossy skin of an oak tree at Kern park. I had the sudden instinct to turn around, and there you were, barreling across the baseball field, wielding thick rubber rain boots, headed right for me. Alarmed, I walked away. You ran, then leaped into a puddle that was just inches from where I had been admiring the tree, triumphant and protected in your thick rubber rain boots. Then, you walked away, too.
Why did you do that? If I hadn't walked away, would you have still jumped into the puddle, splashing me? Or perhaps you were trying to tell me something, which I couldn't hear through the blare of my ear buds, and when I didn't respond, you resorted to intimidation to catch my attention? Was that Herculean leap into frigid rainwater a nostalgic expression of childhood freedom, or a nihilistic capitulation to the entropic nature of the world? Am I simply overthinking this?
Please let me know, would love to walk aimlessly through fopo sometime. I was the paranoid guy with the white jacket, by the way.
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