You know this place. Have lived here although upon returning, you are met with a feeling of strangeness. The strangeness of a dream -- tangible yet elusive. A taste that won't speak to your mind, just your tongue. A poem that dissolves on the page to become morning's roux.
Watching the neon in the rain, a giant truck turned a corner and raced down the dirty alley. The tail lights were as dark as her eyes, great deep dark absences of doubt, disappearing as they trailed off the sides of buildings and windows--local deliveries of oranges and coffee to keep the folks alive.
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