Digging. 1994.

It’s like digging. Digging tenderly with a delicate trowel.

Digging around and about some very precious thing.

A gem sparkling in the ground.

A prehistoric artefact.

Trying to extract it from the mud.

All around it. Find out what it is exactly, polish it up, then show everyone around, so they will know it too.

My gems are somehow set in concrete.

Perhaps I should set aside this delicate trowel and bring in a sledgehammer.

But I am filled with fear that I would break the treasure.


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