John Smith

He rides his bike.

Nothing is remarkable about the ride,

the bike,

his surroundings,

himself.

He knows this. In fact, he tends to describe himself as blasé.

Nothing remarkable.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

His marks of humanity are simply that. They don’t showcase any sense or scent of individuality.

Somebody somewhere also has brown hair.

Somebody somewhere also has hazel eyes.

Somebody somewhere also grows facial hair only on his chin and cheeks, his upper lip deprived.

Everything about him is something somebody else shares.

Somebody somewhere likes the same music, rides the same bike, indulges in the same vices.

He understands the idea of the “individual,” but takes it for its literal meaning: a single, solitary entity. Alone.

He wonders when “individual” became synonymous with “unique.”

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