Waiting for the green light,

every night at nine,

exhaustion and excitement all at once –

a joke,

as black as the screen.

 

Cheerful sadness from another window,

every song repeating,

dreadful and distracting all at once –

a soul,

as lost as our future.

 

Fume, opiating thoughts,

every glass refilled,

cavernous and captivating all at once,

a ghost,

as lively as a child.

 

Is it mercy to torture in turns?

 

 

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