Smoke

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I go to a particular place, on every Tuesday evening, to donate my time and my effort, helping to make the city, in which I call home at the present moment a better place.

On my way to the location, I would always pass this tower, where a thick cloud of white smoke blows out. From spring to summer, I can barely notice the curvy silhouette of the smoke. It appears to be as light as a gentle breeze under the blazing sun. When the weather gets cold in the fall and winter, the smoke becomes thick and cottony. Where is the smoke traveling to? I often wonder. I wish I could be either as light as a breezily blowing smoke in the wind or as thick as a cottony one in the chilly air, witnessing the nonstop changes of the world.

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