sometimes I think about...

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The end of our race is our shoes.

Good shoes make soft feet. Soft, sensitive feet. Feet that don’t hold up in hot sand, that can’t take a walk across rough pavement. Feet that would get you killed in the jungle. Feet like Gollum, that haven’t seen sunlight in years.

Shed your dark, damp layers! You who have forgotten the pang of hunger, the sting of salt. To again be wild, to again find sun and wind and shortness of breath. To put mountains beneath our battered feet. To live shorter lives. We are aged, weak, pale monsters, huddled in twisted, colorful shells.

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