[if !mso]

Last month, Mr. Bunker had walked the long, golden walk into town for a coke.  The wind ruffled the gravel dirt that had lightly touched his shoes as he walked along an old country road.

There was something to be said about living in a small town.  Mr. Bunker would walk past a field of daisies, and see nothing but weeds.  Slowly, the blazing hot sky would open the daisies...


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