Superstition swoops from the sycamores thieving all good fortune. Hexing like a voodoo priestess. High above the morning carnage where commuters vie for position and jostle for elusive momentum, a black and white pickpocket relieves me of my peace of mind. Casting feathered curses all the while. I quiet my irrational apprehension and wish him luck in finding a mate so he can turn my sorrow into joy. |
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