Old woman with dog;
Boy with soccer ball; Young lady with tattoos and cigarettes, fire & smoke: This summer afternoon is only theirs for they are the absolute measure of it all. On each building a window for each room and inside there’s the bed of the next winner of the Nobel prize The next president; The next war hero; The next messiah. The next I AM. The self-important I the I who writes: if not for those Is there'd be another I; the I would have traced a whole different race The I wouldn’t be mourning Nor drunk nor melancholic. 'Cause the I has left the bar. The I has left the summer The same way the I buried winter nights. The I walked home and, now, as the I hides, the I considers writing the perfect love rhymes for the love the I has been denied as if with the right placed words the I could conquer the affection of any given I the I ever longed to be the I's I.
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