a seventy five year old man yelps and slurps due to his aged and well-used vocal chords

it is a small town, though the size is unimportant. he is pleased with the tiny japanese fire truck. he has imported it, brought it to the small town. the size, though, is unimportant. he drives his tiny japanese fire truck to his job. parks it in the lot outside. drives it back home again. he is pleased when he sees it. he is pleased when he drives it around the small town. the size of which is unimportant. the squeaking of the rear window drives you crazy. as you drive the window squeaks. it drives you crazy. they do not even hear it. the wind blows. the birds squawk and chirp. the birds pick at the leaves, pick at the fruit. the small clusters of bright red berries. the sidewalk beneath the tree is littered with the fallen fruit. the small clusters of bright red berries. a vigorous sweeping to remove the berries from the walk. a vigorous sweeping to keep the berries, fallen, from being trod underfoot, squished underfoot, their brightness brought inside from the tread underfoot. small bright stains receding to brown, under artificial light. to some it is a small thing, unnoticed. some can see nothing else. the size is unimportant.