I found a goiter on my bike tire. It got there when I told my bike I was thinking about replacing it. I told it its wheels didn’t turn properly, its gears didn’t shift properly, and its handlebars were no longer straight. I think it was stressed about being unloved, rusting silently in a misty gutter somewhere close by, forced to watch me speed away on a trusty new steed.
But maybe it just got a goiter because it misses me when I’m gone. I miss it, sometimes. We fly delicately together. We are one. I could never replace it.
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