The field of Tarmac is still there. I reckon I unconsciously wished to run into this specific point once more this morning, as if it could have been just a delusion [you know, the Tarmac] Silly memory. Silly me, longing for a dirty field of grass. The Tarmac is still there. Cold & grey, hard & quiet. I might move to a city where you can only find grass around a certainly almost dead tree trapped in cement. Obviously, there is no space to casually spot a grasshopper. Let alone lying down just to lose track of time. I wonder how come progress can be evoked to excuse dead matter. Grey concrete. Grey remembrances of previous thoughts. Grey acts & consequences. A million insects I might have counted. It is not going to disappear [you know, the impervious field of Tarmac] I will die one day, & the piece of land full of dirt & grass will not be there to preserve my occurrences. I should not have come to this sight again. I should keep walking...

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