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it never troubles the sun
it never troubles the sun
It Never Troubles the Sun
June 6
If the sun was a bartender, it’d take the most expensive bottles off the highest shelf and, running out into the street, start pouring triples to any passerby, refusing even the thought of payment.
If the sun was a banker it would blow the vault open, setting mountains of cash in the front lobby, helping every shocked civilian fill a duffel bag, regardless of whether or not they had a ski mask.
If the sun was a movie exec there’d be no more copyrights, letting teens and schoolchildren everywhere watch anything ad-free, not caring for intellectual property or residuals.
If the sun was our mother—and it very well might be—it would gather every birthday present imaginable, throwing absurd parties every morning, refusing to let anyone go unfed, refusing to let any hand go giftless.
But the sun is the sun, never troubled by where its golden beams fall, into dark alleys, blocked out by trees, cascading past eyes not paying attention—never bothered by any ungrateful space, or person filling it.
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