I woke up before dawn. I walked along the dimly glowed precinct meeting a few people dashing for work. The gate of the park has been opened wide under the navy blue sky, but no body was in sight at the entrance square. A couple of women hurrying on the pathway while the gossip group returned to gather inside the canopy by the side of the tennis courts. When I walked pass, they giggle upon the gossip, which would never be my cup of tea. Daylight turned bright faster than I start to paint, and the joggers began to fill the track. Though the pillar in mega scale has taken almost half of the page, yet it took me ages to draft the tiles of the pathway under the cluster of metal canopy some distance away from my feet. The sun rose to cast hazy sunshine on the pathway when the oldie on wheel chair arrived. She complained about the stuffy air again after greeting the old guy exercising on the bench next to me. I tried to shift my position to the right to avoid seeing their flicking gesture, but then another guy I never met before started to walk to and on the jogging track in front of me. I paused, close my eyes and take a deep breath, but before I opened my eyes, the noise wafted from a radio carried by the all old man approached, he heavily hung the stick on the bench that I was sitting to paint. Feeling being circumscribed, there was no space in the air to squeeze for another stroke of paint, and I quickly packed.


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