Rollerblading & Yo-yoing

Strapping a quartet of wheels to each foot, I scream across the black top with the sun setting behind me and the moon rising before me. As the sun vanishes behind the puffy clouds and distant horizon, rays of airy light break out across the clear blue sky. Breathing in the clear fresh air, feeling the wind rush through my hair, and tasting the salty sweat as it beads up and drips down my face; I am alive.

Attached to a string, a small orb sails across the sky, tossed to and fro with the flick of the wrist, to the tune of the jam, to the movement of the man, who sways across the grass, among the quick bright flash of the fire flies, and the sun goes down, and the sky turns black–and the dance rolls on.

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