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I remember a story about a bird, a bird born without legs. It was doomed to fly and fly, never to find rest as long as it lived. That is it. There is no beginning, no ending--its metaphorical existence is all there is to this story.

I heard his name today. That familiar name, first and last, was pronounced loud and clear in my ears. Twice. It came up during lunch with a rep whom I knew from before.

The bird brushed up against a soft patch of land today. It continued its unwieldy flight, but its heart felt a touch warmer.