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August 27, 2019
VI. It's Christmas morning. The street is deserted. What used to be small children caroling are paper scraps from last night's half-hearted firework party. At the end of San Jose Street the sun is peeking out. Hesitant. In years past Christmas morning was alive here. Everything and nothing happened. People got tired, gave up, just went to bed. A community of depressives with bottomless hot chocolate perpetually nursing their cold hands. Here, warm hands are news. If one turns into a Sad, their hand automatically turns into a Bad. Cold, clammy, always yearning for warmth. Happy Christmas.