The cigarette corpses littered the streets. The stale smell of tobacco leaking out of these ancient carcasses, petrified and tranquil among the canvas of concrete. Blanketing the highways, mixing in with the decrepit leaves and trash that blemished the skin of the city.
Three blocks away from the epicenter of this mausoleum was a man crying alone, lamenting over the shit-luck route his life decided to embark on. Instead of letting it run its course, he wept. For misfortune, for luck, for lack of... everything. The suns' relinquishing of it's duties to make way for the reign of Luna coinciding with the man's' incessant bleating concerning fairness, and equality.
The city moaned along at night, creaking and bleeding for an audience of none. The cigarettes that strangled the roads were witnesses of no importance, as they could not speak, they could not recant the nights of filth and gluttony that was so commonplace. Alone they sat, to be moved only on days of wind and rain, washed away to locations unknown.
More and more cigarettes joined the burial ground.
Elsewhere in town, more and more coffee was spilled down drains, more and more tears staining faces, more and more hearts incinerated and broken into nothingness. This constant was the sum of life and it's vague idiosyncrasies. So many people unhappy and living with strife.
And more and more cigarettes joined the burial ground.
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