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tea, instead of wine; incense, instead of weed. 7am and the black has turned to gray, the chicago ceiling hanging low and thick, impenetrable. the ground and rooftops are covered in the same uniform white, except where dog tracks crisscross. even the fences, the paint on the houses, all looks washed out. in the winter, the city turns to black and white, and infinite shades of gray.
when the night has been long and sad, and the dawn brings no sun, exhaustion multiplies. sleep comes easy, long, and deep; sleep like heroin, carried away, bouyed by fleeting illusions of fulfillment.
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