Beneath the fan in my room, a hairball rotates slowly around on the floor. It's not a cat style hairball, all spit and fur, but rather a thing like a tumbleweed, made of my own hair that I guess gathered up somewhere behind my chair and escaped somehow, if you'll allow me to anthropomorphise it.
And that does lead to why I don't pick it up and get rid of it. It's inspiring, in a way, as it survives and keeps going despite being so fragile and weak. Really keeps things in perspective.
Besides, no-one else is ever here, anyway.
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