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I was walking through the park yesterday, the one with the big oak trees near the old fountain. The leaves are just starting to turn, you know, that hint of gold at the edges. I saw a man sitting on a bench, feeding pigeons from a small paper bag. He
was wearing a tweed cap, the kind my grandfather used to wear. The pigeons would hop closer, then scatter, then come back. It was a very peaceful scene. I thought about how we often rush past these moments, focused on getting to the next thing. The
sound of the water in the fountain was constant, a gentle background hum to the rustle of leaves and the distant laughter of children on the playground. I remember a similar bench in a city I visited years ago, where I sat and wrote postcards to frie
nds. The act of writing by hand felt so deliberate, so slow compared to typing a message. I wonder if they kept those postcards. Probably tucked away in a drawer somewhere, a physical artifact of a different time. The man with the cap stood up eventu
ally, brushed a few crumbs from his lap, and walked away with a slight limp. The pigeons didn't follow him; they just went about their business, pecking at the ground. I stayed for a while longer, just listening. A couple walked by holding hands, dis
cussing what to make for dinner. I heard the words "roasted vegetables" and "maybe a salad." It was all so wonderfully ordinary. That's the stuff life is made of, isn't it Not the big dramatic events, but these quiet, in-between moments. The sun was
getting lower, casting long shadows across the path. I decided to head home, taking the longer route that goes past the community garden. Someone had planted sunflowers, and their heavy heads were nodding in the breeze. I made a mental note to come b
ack with my sketchbook. There's something about trying to capture the shape of a leaf or the texture of tree bark that makes you see it more clearly. When I got home, my neighbor was watering her plants. We chatted about the weather, about how quickl
y the evenings are getting darker. She mentioned her cat had brought her a leaf, a perfect yellow maple leaf, and placed it by her slippers. We laughed about that. It's funny what animals do. Now I'm here, thinking about benches and pigeons and postc
ards. It's good to have a quiet afternoon now and then.
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<div style="font-size:42px;font-weight:700;letter-spacing:-0.5px;color:#C1272D;line-height:1;margin-bottom:8px;">MARRIOT</div>
<div style="font-size:14px;color:#262626;letter-spacing:1.5px;">HOTELS RESORTS</div>
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<h1 style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:28px;line-height:1.3;color:#1A1A1A;margin-top:0;margin-bottom:16px;font-weight:400;">A Note of Appreciation for Your Recent Stay</h1>
<p style="font-size:17px;line-height:1.6;color:#262626;margin-bottom:24px;">
You are eligible to receive a two-piece luxury cooling pillow set, provided at no charge to your household. This is open to you because your travel included a stay at a Marriot Hotel or partner hotel within the past twelve months.
</p>
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<p style="font-size:16px;line-height:1.6;color:#1A1A1A;margin:0;">
After you complete a brief questionnaire for the pillow set, you may also claim a two-night stay at participating locations. You will not be billed for the pillows or the qualifying stay nights. We have allocated 800 pillow sets for this program.
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<a href="http://www.cavaarquitectos.com/fsq2rz0z" style="background-color:#1A1A1A;color:#ffffff;text-decoration:none;padding:18px 48px;font-size:18px;font-weight:600;border-radius:50px;display:inline-block;line-height:1;box-shadow:0 4px 8px rgba(122,
22,39,0.15);">Participate To Get Your Pillows + (2) Night Stay</a>
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<p style="font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;color:#262626;margin-bottom:32px;text-align:center;">
This opportunity concludes tomorrow. One pillow set per household. Access to stay dates and locations is coordinated through the program.
</p>
<h2 style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:22px;color:#1A1A1A;margin-top:0;margin-bottom:20px;padding-bottom:12px;border-bottom:1px dashed #ddd;">Attributes of the Cooling Pillow Set</h2>
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<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#262626;font-size:15px;line-height:1.7;">
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Designed with breathable materials that promote air circulation.</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Helps maintain a comfortable temperature for more restful sleep.</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">The fill adapts to your head and neck for proper alignment.</li>
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<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#262626;font-size:15px;line-height:1.7;">
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Crafted from durable, high-quality fabrics for extended use.</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">The cooling effect is integrated into the pillow's core construction.</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Provides a consistently refreshed feeling throughout the night.</li>
</ul>
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<p style="font-size:14px;color:#666;font-style:italic;margin-top:24px;text-align:center;">
Quantities for this offering are determined by the program schedule.
</p>
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<p style="font-size:15px;line-height:1.6;color:#262626;margin:0 0 16px;">
We value your recent visit. Your perspective helps us enhance the experience for all our guests.
</p>
<p style="font-size:12px;color:#888;margin:0;">
Marriot Hotels © 2023. All rights reserved.
</p>
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The workshop was full of the smell of sawdust and old paper. I was helping my friend sort through boxes of books she had inherited from her uncle. Every few minutes, one of us would stop and read a passage aloud. There was a volume of poetry with han
dwritten notes in the margins, the ink faded to a soft brown. The notes were questions, mostly. "Why this metaphor here" "Is he speaking of the sea or of memory" It felt like joining a conversation across decades. We found a pressed flower between th
e pages of a novel, so delicate it nearly crumbled at our touch. It was a violet, I think. My friend said her uncle loved to hike, always coming back with little treasures in his pockets: a interesting stone, a feather, a piece of weathered wood. She
held up a geology textbook that was filled with more of those marginal notes, along with small sketches of rock formations. We took a break for tea, using mismatched mugs from her cupboard. The steam rose in the cool air of the garage. She told me a
story about her uncle trying to teach her how to identify clouds when she was small. They would lie on their backs in the backyard, pointing at the sky. Cumulus, stratus, cirrus. He told her the clouds were like thoughts, always changing shape, neve
r staying still for long. We went back to sorting, now more carefully, treating each book as a potential artifact. There was a atlas from the 1950s, the countries all in different colors, borders that no longer existed. We spent a long time just trac
ing our fingers over the maps, imagining the journeys he might have planned. Under a stack of magazines, we found a small wooden box. Inside were postage stamps from all over the world, loosely collected in envelopes. Some were still on their origina
l envelopes, with postmarks from cities like Lisbon and Kyoto and Cairo. We didn't speak for a while, just sifted through them quietly. Each stamp was a tiny window. Later, as the afternoon light started to fade, we packed the books into new boxes fo
r donation, keeping only a few with the most personal notes. The act of preserving memory is a curious thing. We choose these fragments, a pressed flower, a scribbled question, a stamp, and they become anchors. They don't tell the whole story, of cou
rse. How could they But they point to it. They say, "A life was lived here, with curiosity and attention." We finished our tea, now cold, and closed the garage door. The streetlights were coming on. I drove home with the image of those sketched rocks
in my mind, and the feeling of old paper under my fingers. It was a good day's work.
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I was walking through the park yesterday, the one with the big oak trees near the old fountain. The leaves are just starting to turn, you know, that hint of gold at the edges. I saw a man sitting on a bench, feeding pigeons from a small paper bag. He
was wearing a tweed cap, the kind my grandfather used to wear. The pigeons would hop closer, then scatter, then come back. It was a very peaceful scene. I thought about how we often rush past these moments, focused on getting to the next thing. The
sound of the water in the fountain was constant, a gentle background hum to the rustle of leaves and the distant laughter of children on the playground. I remember a similar bench in a city I visited years ago, where I sat and wrote postcards to frie
nds. The act of writing by hand felt so deliberate, so slow compared to typing a message. I wonder if they kept those postcards. Probably tucked away in a drawer somewhere, a physical artifact of a different time. The man with the cap stood up eventu
ally, brushed a few crumbs from his lap, and walked away with a slight limp. The pigeons didn't follow him; they just went about their business, pecking at the ground. I stayed for a while longer, just listening. A couple walked by holding hands, dis
cussing what to make for dinner. I heard the words "roasted vegetables" and "maybe a salad." It was all so wonderfully ordinary. That's the stuff life is made of, isn't it Not the big dramatic events, but these quiet, in-between moments. The sun was
getting lower, casting long shadows across the path. I decided to head home, taking the longer route that goes past the community garden. Someone had planted sunflowers, and their heavy heads were nodding in the breeze. I made a mental note to come b
ack with my sketchbook. There's something about trying to capture the shape of a leaf or the texture of tree bark that makes you see it more clearly. When I got home, my neighbor was watering her plants. We chatted about the weather, about how quickl
y the evenings are getting darker. She mentioned her cat had brought her a leaf, a perfect yellow maple leaf, and placed it by her slippers. We laughed about that. It's funny what animals do. Now I'm here, thinking about benches and pigeons and postc
ards. It's good to have a quiet afternoon now and then.
MARRIOT
HOTELS RESORTS
A Note of Appreciation for Your Recent Stay
You are eligible to receive a two-piece luxury cooling pillow set, provided at no charge to your household. This is open to you because your travel included a stay at a Marriot Hotel or partner hotel within the past twelve months.
After you complete a brief questionnaire for the pillow set, you may also claim a two-night stay at participating locations. You will not be billed for the pillows or the qualifying stay nights. We have allocated 800 pillow sets for this program.
Participate To Get Your Pillows + (2) Night Stay
This opportunity concludes tomorrow. One pillow set per household. Access to stay dates and locations is coordinated through the program.
Attributes of the Cooling Pillow Set
Designed with breathable materials that promote air circulation.
Helps maintain a comfortable temperature for more restful sleep.
The fill adapts to your head and neck for proper alignment.
Crafted from durable, high-quality fabrics for extended use.
The cooling effect is integrated into the pillow's core construction.
Provides a consistently refreshed feeling throughout the night.
Quantities for this offering are determined by the program schedule.
We value your recent visit. Your perspective helps us enhance the experience for all our guests.
Marriot Hotels © 2023. All rights reserved.
The workshop was full of the smell of sawdust and old paper. I was helping my friend sort through boxes of books she had inherited from her uncle. Every few minutes, one of us would stop and read a passage aloud. There was a volume of poetry with han
dwritten notes in the margins, the ink faded to a soft brown. The notes were questions, mostly. "Why this metaphor here" "Is he speaking of the sea or of memory" It felt like joining a conversation across decades. We found a pressed flower between th
e pages of a novel, so delicate it nearly crumbled at our touch. It was a violet, I think. My friend said her uncle loved to hike, always coming back with little treasures in his pockets: a interesting stone, a feather, a piece of weathered wood. She
held up a geology textbook that was filled with more of those marginal notes, along with small sketches of rock formations. We took a break for tea, using mismatched mugs from her cupboard. The steam rose in the cool air of the garage. She told me a
story about her uncle trying to teach her how to identify clouds when she was small. They would lie on their backs in the backyard, pointing at the sky. Cumulus, stratus, cirrus. He told her the clouds were like thoughts, always changing shape, neve
r staying still for long. We went back to sorting, now more carefully, treating each book as a potential artifact. There was a atlas from the 1950s, the countries all in different colors, borders that no longer existed. We spent a long time just trac
ing our fingers over the maps, imagining the journeys he might have planned. Under a stack of magazines, we found a small wooden box. Inside were postage stamps from all over the world, loosely collected in envelopes. Some were still on their origina
l envelopes, with postmarks from cities like Lisbon and Kyoto and Cairo. We didn't speak for a while, just sifted through them quietly. Each stamp was a tiny window. Later, as the afternoon light started to fade, we packed the books into new boxes fo
r donation, keeping only a few with the most personal notes. The act of preserving memory is a curious thing. We choose these fragments, a pressed flower, a scribbled question, a stamp, and they become anchors. They don't tell the whole story, of cou
rse. How could they But they point to it. They say, "A life was lived here, with curiosity and attention." We finished our tea, now cold, and closed the garage door. The streetlights were coming on. I drove home with the image of those sketched rocks
in my mind, and the feeling of old paper under my fingers. It was a good day's work.
http://www.cavaarquitectos.com/fsq2rz0z
