Smoke: Why I Hated Playgrounds

It was a gloomy evening, the southeaster was blowing and the field was knee-high in old, yellow grass that was haggard and tired from years of being bullied by the wind. The swings and roundabout were old and broken with peeling, faded paint, and a rusty wire fence - sagging in places and broken in others - framed the whole depressing tableau.

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