The death of ambition in the heart of a lonely man becomes a tragic statistic when the dream is all he has left.
The heartlessness of the razor’s edge slices his shoes to bits.
It’s a good thing his socks are kevlar, or he would be as lame as his fantasies have become.
A mourning sob escapes his dewdropped lips, tears through the city streets like the screeching sound of underinflated tires on freshly sealed asphalt.
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