I looked and looked at the bike, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will
die,
that I loved the bike more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on
earth.
The bike was only the dead-leaf echo of the (sexually precocious preadolescent) bike from long ago -
but I loved the bike, this Bike, pale and polluted and big with another's child.
The bike could fade and wither - I didn't care.
I would still go
mad with tenderness at the mere sight of the bike's face.
*theory checks out*
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