Agora: The Derelict... Comments

When you laugh, bliss yanks at the tessles of your hair in the cold night air. The neon blue light from the glass agora balcony shoots up, illuminating the smoke that climbs out of a bohemian's mouth.

You crawl downstairs, tightly gripping the rail, and glide to the bar. You order your latte and dehydrated spinach chips, admiring the flower of two dollar bills nailed to a post. You tip your barista with the funny slavic accent and saunter over to a window seat.
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