Someone had to invent the paragraph. It didn’t naturally exist. I meant to tell you I was watching the cottonwood trees shedding their dream of world domination. They release their DNA on the wind as films by young people do. It was a billion selfies on the wind today. I felt I should carry an umbrella around for the poetry. The stupid poetry of it all! They grow so tall, those trees, that they threaten houses. The catkins’ seeds are airborne and every block looks like a Japanese woodcut of falling snow. It is the Floating World. But it is a new spring. I step off the curb whose shoulder the white fluff is crying on. I see you in a window, high up. You wave to me with a stapler. It looks like a vaguely homicidal gesture, but I will take it. You are talking to me again.
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