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From a blue bench

The middle aged and bearded men sit on benches, eyes moving along folded news pages. an incessant repertoire of sounds, endless collaboration to drown out silence. sun shines where buildings permit, narrow strips of warmth among cold steel and hard cement. rigid geometry, ninety degree angles. "lets add some curves", eye appeal, but to no avail. the streets will stay dirty, the sun wont shine. cigarette butts, gum spots make steps listless. walking blues. i can't breathe here. choked trees and hung plants. wilted men talk in fast languages, sharing jokes and tired laughter. old women stare off out bus windows in absent minded thought. trains roll by with tired eyes and heavy hearts, rusted wheels and vandalized bodies, sighing with each slow progression. countless empty souls shuffle on, arms dead at their sides, eyes full of blank stares. buskers in doorways, beggars on benches as the brighter faces pass unyielding.

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