[Suggested writing topic from A Writer's Book of Days]
As I lay there on the hard, unyielding pavement, hundreds and thousands of footsteps rushed by me, seemingly oblivious of my presence. It did not matter if these feet were connected to giant trunks with a cotton-like bark, slender willowy columns of porcelain, or unsightly hair-covered supports - they were all equally prejudiced toward me.
I am helpless and immobile - the only way I am able to move is if someone accidentally kicks me in my side, enough to roll me over and over until I come to a stop, staring up again hoping some kind soul will stop and rescue me.
After an indeterminable amount of time, my prayers are answered. I feel some soft fingers grasp me around my midsection and lift me up. The fingers are coated with some sticky, dark substance that fouls my shiny skin, but I no longer care. I gaze back into wonderous eyes, as a giggle emerges from childish lips.
"Look what I found, dada!" she exclaims, "my very own quarter!"
Nothing can beat the instanteous change of feeling worthless one second, and then priceless the next. I am truly loved and wanted once again.
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