dark street, narrow road; pedestrian lane with go lights on. a crossing, no contest after all yet who cares who walks past us when in your hands a cigar smokes high. spirits up, souls low rushing images pass through. we both trod the lanes, care none at all. none dares to check who’s up or side. our eyes busy for a destination at hand. work appears important than this one way feels we have.
*for manager mark
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