Day 55: Firenze

The way the light fell. In the quiet hills. The frost still on the bench. Was the world always this beautiful? Did we just forget to look? At the tiny teacups. At the branch's last bud. At the monkey paw at the bottom of the base.

Or are there special places -- key places -- that fit in the lock when it's time? The lenses focused, the details noticed. And you want to do everything over again just to see it right.

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