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June 26, 2015
There is an old playground not far from my house. A rusty slide, rickety roundabout, and a forlorn pair of swings populate an eerie spot with suspicious-looking trees. No one plays there, at least in the last three years I've been passing by. It's not neglected nor is it forgotten. Every Monday it looks like someone cleaned up, and there is a bouquet of yellow flowers in the far left corner. From afar it looks like a yellow ball. A closer inspection informed me they were flowers, a little boy poked through the trees and told me the same.