Twenty four hours with Penny Lane. Body and mind induced with artificial aspects. Heart, shattered. Tubes forcefully ingested with the sole purpose of performing the non-poetic act of gastric suction.

Broken, dirty, yet graceful. Yet pure. Yet a new home.

Tired bar maids. Drying scorched beer glasses with ripped towels and vacant eyes. Awaiting the bantered throngs to simmer down. Off with you now lads.

Slightly erased, with somnolent curiosity, urban campers sweep the pizza shops. It is a part of the broken poem that is stuck on repeat.

A pocket filled with ruminating cogitation. A room to be what you want. We recon a few wasted years in the city of cancerous angels, might be what the doctor ordered.

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