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The Vase

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The only thing she saw was the vase. It and all its glory. It stood only two feet tall, but it held her unwavering attention.
“The neon orange might have something to do with it”, she thought to herself. It was like a symphony of color, screaming at you to look at it, and never look away. Her eyes finally made their way around the room, sweeping over every little detail, every purposeful flaw of the artwork, the building. The people... wishing, wanting, buying. It disgusted her how people could get so absorbed into this junk.
“It’s just a gallery!” she wanted to scream at them. Her gaze periodically moved its way back over to the vase. The artists were beautifully destructive with their work, it seems... What was so special about a canvas splattered with paint? Or a picture of a woman, just sitting there, staring? It was incomprehensible. Unconsciously she had maneuvered her way back over the vase. The Vase. Something in the back of her head screamed at her to buy it. But why? She wasn’t a fan of pottery, nor the color orange. Sighing, she moved away, distracting herself. Hours later, she came home. She came home with a package. A package that held the general shape of something made, something breakable.
She had been unable to leave without the vase.





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