The funny thing about humans is that if you take any inanimate object and throw a couple of googley eyes on it they'll think it has a soul. But then again, maybe it does. Maybe in the very effort of placing the googley eyes you leave with it a little piece of your soul. Perhaps we leave pieces of our soul everywhere. On the books we read, on the things we own, the cars we drive, the art we make. Maybe the story behind every object is the story of the souls who touched it. That's why alleyways are eerie, antique shops grandiose, and street art conflicted. Provo, too, has a soul. It's a collective soul, but a soul nonetheless. For every soul that has ever walked her streets, seen her sights, touched her walls left a small part of them with her forever.
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