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Beyond this city, outside her charcoal-black veins, across the thinning distance and consequent collapse of industrial gray and hasty smog, there lies narrower roads. I wonder in my evenings where these thin ways lead. Perhaps across weather-scarred terrain. Perhaps, the edge of land, in foamy shores of lapping waves, and measured yet endless tides. Or, when the nights are colder and my dreams are stronger, I can imagine in my sleep that they lead to some fabled land of rustic glory, a certain glimpse of unaffected, bucolic simplicity. Stars shine brighter in places where the near-pitch dark escapes from tail lights, neon signs, incandescent facades, and colored everything.

Maybe under the weight of the night, in the fringes of detachment, the roads thin to let only a few see how the sky really appears. An elusiveness city-dwellers will kill to pay. An exclusivity the modern man would find difficult to afford. Because that is what the night is made to do: continue a mystery, reassert the power of the unseen, provide the vital fear that keeps us on our toes until we are brought to sleep. Outside this choking metropolis, what grand schemes are possessed by the lands of a steadier pace. We’re so used to being in a hurry.

And yet we are almost, always late.

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