floating back and forth in a cesspool of heartache perfume painters on streets straighter than dancing grass and happiness and happiness humming tunes of memory away into windows welcoming anything but the story you bring, and Central Park hawks eyeing squirrels and lonely children who escape to mystery buildings through illuminated windows, hard rock, and cigarette smoke‌ and Ice Cream Man trading Happiness for 4 dollars and a dead-alive person artwork museum donating inspiration and headsplitting migraines, disturbing homeless sleep early in the concrete morning‌ disconnected words flex against each other like the opposite ends of a magnet inside my head, all day, so I give up trying to write them all down, instead I decide to suspend myself above avenue traffic and watch them go up and down, tires relentlessly squealing through cafes and trucks rumbling in coffee while I continue to float back and forth in this cesspool of heartache, indifferently expressing my muted passion
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