Nailed crudely to the wall above my desk there is a car number plate. It's absolutely filthy and its surface is still splattered with bugs. A crack runs through it, hinting at past dangers on far-flung highways. Below the letters and numbers there is a sticker, applied by the car's previous owner, which reads: 'My name is Daisy.' Really, it's nothing. To anyone else it's simply a piece of old plastic but, to me, it's priceless because of what it represents.
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