I sit on the grassy hills that always seem so far away in Los Angeles. A light wind cools me, and rustles the carpet of buttercups. Their small faces smile at the rare sunshine. A rough fence grips the hillside to my left, a small forest does the same to my right. But I stare ahead.
The bird's eye view of Stroud unfolds like the most detailed of maps. The map's streets even have moving people in them. "I wonder how it feels," I ask myself. "To live knowing you're only a speck on my moving miniature map." And as I sit still on that grassy hill, their moving miniature lives continue in moving miniature manners, with me contemplating them from above.
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