💯 words, each. Feel free to check.

The cold metal tube, zipped carefully in its fabric case (of questionable quality) and tucked away behind the white metal bars of the battle-tested locker, awaits, ready to be touched, to be held, to be vibrated, to be played with the dedication and fervor of a rare individual — one who, out of sheer self-interest, yearns to exploit the human ear and create the product of one of those great mysteries so beyond the scope of modern knowledge and understanding as to make impossible the scientific description of its magic (for its magic is its merit; its weirdness its wonder): music.

As the streetlight flickers and the wind howls and dies away once again, the young man leans his head back, resting his skull on the stone wall behind him, gazing up at the heavens; he ponders, in amazement, his personal understanding of the universe — that his world is one of millions of billions of others, only a fraction of which will ever be known by his civilization –, questioning whether he really does have it all figured out (Spoiler: he doesn’t), or whether there really is no life after death (no spoilers here!), or whether anything even exists beyond his mind.

Ignoring the uproar and chaos and clamor filling the air, the Peregrine Falcon ascends in preparation for its maneuver (one of dangerous ambition and questionable purpose): to snatch a rat from the saddle of a horse’s back, trotting fourteen miles per hour at eleven degrees (0.192 radians for you math nerds) southwest of the Falcon’s current trajectory; without warning, the arc of its path steepens, and the Falcon mentally recalculates the appropriate flight path; with narrowed eyes, the bird dives, snatches, and devours the unsuspecting rodent, and the crowd goes wild, as one man spills soda on his Medieval Times bib.


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