on the hill that works
in the street of the golden carriage
the winds are smoother
than in paradise
businessmen riding scooters
tattooed twenty-somethings passing on skateboards
chefs and tradesmen
sucking on cigarettes, in
white t-shirts
freckled with grease
stained with paint
dreaming of frozen time
behind clouded windows
sit shelves of books
camus, hugo, de vigny
lying in beds of dust
records sprawled in piles
hiding the cavities in the floor
waiting to be heard
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