Pearson is a collection of dusty items from a long ago childhood found in your country-mouse grandmother’s attic on a scorching July Saturday, right before a lazy afternoon bike ride to the slough wipes the thrill of their discovery from your memory. Separated, they look from here like a sleepless carebear, a one-speed flying down hill that leads out of this town, the last drink before your friend kisses your forehead and helps you home, and a set of perfectly rosy February cheeks post snow-fort construction.

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