TRAFFIC AND MURDER
It gets dark, and the afternoon walks into a cafe like a tired old gunslinger walking into a saloon. The afternoon orders a pot of Italian coffee. The guy working behind the counter catches the stink of traffic and murder from the afternoon’s grey clothes. It’s evening, and the afternoon has nothing to say. So it says nothing, just sits at a table by the window and drinks its coffee. The moon shines on the Gothic cathedral across the street.
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