The narrowness of the streets,
Not made for anything but to fit,
Become the creators of conflict,
Though they were never meant for it.
The city is an experimental simulation
With good people, but also everything.
Also convicts with moral standards,
And then those who don't have any.
Also poor people with nothing,
Refusing to steal, taking from nobody.
It's a euphoria:
The wrong variation of euphoria,
Painted with graffitied walls,
Boxing in the streams of muffled tears,
Masking away the screams
In the whole intoxicating nausea,
Rising above the ground floor
Infecting a new level of folks
With no choice but to try and ignore,
While the long streets that become longer
Never finish staring in prisms of color.
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