The sounds of the tires against the cement at night is like the sound of a film strip someone forgot to turn off but is still going. The air is cold but the wind is colder. The holes in the bottom of your shoes are growing with every step and the effects of the pot of coffee you drank before you left is slowly subsiding. Neon lights up your face, and your stomach churns with the squealing of the tires. There's nothing you can say, there's nothing you can do now. It's moments like this when you realize that you just want to go home.
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