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Trees don’t wear Junk Suits.

I was walking back from the Library (it was closed for the Sunday, which I did not know when I got there and waited in the adjacent Second Cup writing a manuscript) when I stepped on a dirt square with an urban tree. The ground bounced my foot like a mini trampoline. Amused and curious, I began bouncing on the spot. It was as if the dirt and wood chips I was standing on were made of Rubber.

Suddenly, with a slight apprehension, I bent down and stroked the floor. It wasn’t dirt or wood chips at all, but actual rubber. I was no longer amused.

I don’t know what came over me, but I began tearing at the rubber floor surrounding the tree’s roots, feeling a hate of all things constricting. It was if the rubber was my enemy for life, nothing I would rather do harm to. I have never wanted to harm any animal and very few men, but this nonliving, apparently harmless rubber that constricted the already cramped tree growing in the cement? I wanted it dead.

When people started looking at me, I stopped. I felt like continuing, but I’m not an idiot. I’m crazy, but I know that if I’m caught I’d be fined and maybe sued. One day, somehow, I’ll destroy the rubber. I’ll destroy the stone floor around every tree in every city. 


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