A young boy in a black puffy jacket walks down a windy street, his boots shuffling on the asphalt. The ashen pavement is painted with the tawny resin left by burnt autumn leaves, they speckle the sidewalk in an ornate pattern, breaking up the monotonous drone of geometric cracks. He picks up a stick and runs it along a chain link fence, tickling the metallic diamonds as he starts to jog. His jog breaks into a run and the burnt red bricks of factory buildings smear in a wash of emotion, the fuzzy whispers of motowns ghosts stir the air into a static frenzy, clinging to the skinny barren arms of the trees that line the road. His feet drum the tight skin of asphalt beneath them in a shifting rhythm. He tears across the city at this cantered pace, arcing over concrete spined bridges and ducking through metal ribbed tunnels, navigating deeper into its sweaty heart.
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