From the third story window,

traffic below releases a voice.

The aroma of warm asphalt, oil and

exhaust rises into the space between

tired buildings.  People imitate the ants

below their feet; swerving to avoid

contact. Passing anger remains

concealed within; learned by everyone

to survive.  Eyes gaze from open

windows, scanning the streets and

sidewalks.  There is a social language

of movement.  Each possessing a space

to pass through.  Unmarked until the

moment they enter the crowds.  Few smile.

Pain spins the ingredients into thought.



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