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You walk in a metropolis of warped ideas,
where there is disregard for ritual and street processions.
Instead of leaves, you now step on stubs numbered with ephemeral hope. 

No one could see you, though you walk naked and unsteadily.
Few could hear you, as you're screaming to your death.
In that cheap high, you begin to walk a little faster, 
demanding to uncover a more attractive side of town.

© 2002 Franck de las Mercedes