Often in my walks I imagine stories that perhaps hold no real semblance to the truth of my subjects hurried lives. I like to think that their brisk walk was toward something happy. Perhaps a sprightly jog towards some lover's hideaway tucked between the daunting cold of the city and the looming schedule of the workday, for stolen kiss to get them through the day. Their shillouettes seemed happy, and with the misery of the cold winter tossed aside, I'll believe happiness lay in those shadows.

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