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Up until the past couple of years, he’s never cared to notice. He’s observed, maybe, but never taken care to see the world with purpose. A sunset, for one, is a sunset, and moonrise is moonrise is moonrise; he knows with objective certainty that these are beautiful, but if the beauty does nothing then the knowing does equally nothing. He can appreciate them the way he can appreciate the existence of a fire escape, can take note of them the way he can take note of a rack of discounted flowers on the path to the cashier aisles, but they hold no place in his mind beyond that observation.
Until there’s suddenly reason for them to. Until a sunset is suddenly a photo he can send to someone whose affection for it he longs to bathe in. Until a fire escape is a place to run away to for a small pocket of time. Until a discounted flower is a gift.
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