god, it's beautiful!
all the decay and orange light.
dust and potholes meanly
defying the crumbling order;
the empty buildings and dank
underpasses harbouring smoke.
a wonder those streetlamps
still cling to dear gaunt life,
and I wonder if those hanging
cables still talk...

damn you, Mr Eliot (he dead)
you were right!
and all those prophets rolling
in our ruin.

it's beautiful...
the neon is beautiful.

love, hope is dead.

god, I'd love to see how
it all will end!



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