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Etching dreams now

I make my own wounds

In the bar until dawn

Strangers abound

Scattered among the tables

Pool sticks stabbing at pool balls

The unmistakable smack

Upon the green carpet

I am weary of life

But still I march

This mortal coil corridor

I sail the seas

Of this misshapen world

Odd heads, odd thoughts

The vapor queue winds

Down the block and more

Littered storefronts

Papers in the breeze

Books in windows

Tell all the stories

Of the mass disarray