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It’s Sunday, the first day of the week.

The city is slowly coming to life. The gas van is going past with its Imagerepetitive little tune.

I can hear the mosque chanting in the distance.

The inhabitants of the big fir tree are flying out one by one, in pursuit of the day’s opportunities. A massive, stern looking crow is the last one home.
The sandwich cart stops in front of an office building. The guy makes baked egg sandwiches with humous and tomatoes. He hands them out quickly and expertly to expectant hands. When breakfast has been served he lights a cigarette and crouches on the pavement.

The week can now begin.

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