Its Saturday again and the lucid curtains are shabby. Torn stitches, no good are they. Shabby curtains, shabby world. Looking at you is loneliness. I tell you this and you tell me you’ve been dreaming. Dreaming of winter. Red flesh eating; cold, cold city, cold streets. Through the facade of the bright white crisp morning, you can see pools of darkness in their homes. Cold people, cold hearts. You turn to the empty street…mounts of snow untouched. Using orange pools of lamp light we look down at threads of yellow line. You say you are searching for yours, it will guide you home. Today its cold weather, cold streets, cold hearts, we too are cold. You say you have to go, I wave goodbye as you follow your line and quietly disappear in a fog.


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