Trading places with the fading face of the sun, the moon surfaced up the horizon. And in the atonal clucks of an electric radio, music entered the exit points of everywhere. People built bets that night.
He pushed out of the memory of working days, still with their racing clocks. Turning time, and ripping space apart. Frozen in the selfish decision of a chance, was the ice-cold sphere of the heart, knitting a blanket of rescue to leave the rest of the body untouched. Minutes of light spread thru the stark and dark nests of the people. It was much less crowded then he remembered, remembered the crowd he calls strangers.
He zeroed in on a description that had been being tossed about him. They considered him more professional now, they thought he never stopped asking the right questions, and they perfumed his image. In a few questions he had the whole scene drunk on his fingertips, the quiet madness was in semblance to normal nights.
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