Fly

Nobody but the winds are awake. A pair of dark boots are climbing over people covered in lost hopes and dreams and bottles filled with happiness in liquid form. These people are sleeping in their own scars and tears. The boots are trying to escape. A bruised body might be better than a bruised mind. Slowly moving like the hands of an retired pianist. Like snowflakes in the night sky melting as they hit the pavement. The boots know these streets better than the person that wears them, sees every stick, every stone. Young girls are like melting snowflakes, a few passing moments of glory and beauty then a fall and suddenly they melt on the pavement. What if one could only fly? The person in the boots will try.

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