Sometimes fringe is new. It swings when you brush by it. It might move when you do, or make a slight sound as beads knock against beads. It's fun. The swirl of a flapper dress. The accent on a tacky lamp.
But sometimes fringe is old. It is marble, immobile, serious. It adorns an angel or hangs in perpetual melancholy over plinth bearing a name and two dates.
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