Miles’ clothes are folded neatly,
mine aren’t.
Miles’ room isn’t messy,
mine is.
Miles’ car is new and improved,
mine has a license plate that still drags against the tailgate of my truck.
Miles’ front seats are designated for nights with girls and fancy drive in movies,
mine are made to drive me to and from places as I wish Miles and I were alike.
Miles and I have many differences.
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