The Streets

S. K. Nicholas

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In a disused phone booth, I piss away a week’s wages and shiver as if someone were walking over my grave. With my mouth wide open and fingers clenched, I wonder how I got here but the events of the evening have long since escaped me. Observing the streets from relative obscurity, the sights and sounds that ring out make my skin itch. This form of beauty they worship, it’s as trashy and as deep as the puddle of piss at my feet. It’s an imitation of an imitation. A copy of a copy. And yet everyone walks around oblivious to theirfickle and flightless ways. There are lovers kissing in a bus shelter, and beyond them in the local cemetery, a group of kids are trying to set fire to several cans of Lynx Africa. One explodes causing the group to flee in every direction, but the lovers keep kissing…

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