O what a comment on humanity's condition- buckets forged elsewhere in some mechanized plasticity, shoveled to fill with snow, are sent up a rickety ramp with electric motor slightly whirring, they fill the form of a masterpiece to melt.
And with such joy this fills us, with such vigor do we work and are warm in the cold air. On a bleak winter day, buckets progress still.
Tuesday, February 19
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