Old City

The city was same, the same people suited up for things I don’t care, for things they don’t care. The old man with the same pose and a newspaper keeping an eye on matters he isn’t involved or invited. The same kid walking his dog till he finds the new object to abuse for entertainment. The same rush in the early hours from people who are busy calculating their next moves that they forget to acknowledge the peace in the trees or benches by roadside, lying vacant. And while some people mix the paint for numbering the trees, the time goes by and another day comes and another tree dies In the middle of chaotic mess, there comes a single ray of light, jumping for one building to another, Turning up the pace with every story it touches. The layers of treble highlight every building, every tree, every bench and every face while the bass fuels every step, every movement and every turn on the wheel and the lyrics starts to moue, both swiftly and smoothly into every broken piece of the same broken street making the street, for the briefest moment, a perfect whole to watch and paint. 

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