Written by: S.T. King
I wonder, reader, if you can smell the air of this place: high-rise apartment buildings and their black soot-covered windows, train-tracks pushing through tufts of thick green weeds and dense grass, broken roads of blackened asphalt covered in beer bottles and solo cups — syringes, cigarette butts, opened foam plates with chicken-bones and red globs of ketchup, the acrid odor of dew, flies, the dense silence of morning — and the sun rises slowly beyond the leaning rusted fences, like its afraid, reluctant to lift the darkness from the narrow and still alleyways. The night bid its leave and sink in the soil like it’d been bearing the full weight of the darkness, a blackness that hides secrets from the better parts of America: poverty, freedom, self-destruction.
I welcome you, reader, to Paradise.
There in a pale misty light from a lamp at the other…
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