Through a window this morning I watch the head and shoulders of a young man nod and sway to music which he but not I can hear.
In the compost heap a new, furry, green tennis ball at least one which was new when by some strange stroke of fate it arrived there. Today following its rescue it has dried out. But sad to say, as I test it on the paving, it betrays - a condition with which I must sympathise - a marked loss of its original bounce.
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