For my piece, I died.
Well, looked like I did. I put on my best funerary clothes, and painted my face, and slumped myself on that bench. I endured the cold and pain of my arms falling asleep. I also managed to keep a straight face while everyone came to see us. I was listening to them talking about me, and commenting on how I must have died from secondhand smoke from Garret Colbert. I wanted to be able to laugh with them, and be able to stick my hands in my pockets.
On the bench, I felt like such a party pooper for spring. All around me were birds tweeting, and buds growing on the tree, and here I was, dead.
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