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How again after months there is awe.The most personal moment of the dayappears unannounced. People wear leather.People refuse to die. There are strangerswho look like they could know your name.And the smell of a bar on a cold night,or the sound of traffic as it follows you home.Sirens. Parties. How balconies hold us.Whatever enough is, it hasn’t arrived.And on some dead afternoonwhen you’ll likely forget this,as you browse through the vintageagain and again—there it is,what everyone’s given upjust to stay here. Jeweled hairpins,scratched records, their fast youth.Everything they’ve given upto stay here and find more.
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