The Pattern On My Pants

I look at the pattern on my pants and I’m reminded of the permanence of complexity. And furthermore how useless my vision is that it cannot turn paisley into pinstripe no matter how long or hard I stare. It’s simply an unfortunate circumstance that they were ever pants at all. Why, then, does it matter so much to me that the pattern on my pants be other than they are when all I ever do is to avoid blinking?

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