When they heard

the monotone—

simple—bitrate sounds,

they came to

our streets at the nights

of October and November,

but seldom

in December. They swarmed

like flies to the light

and with the same

lightning speed

they took flight—

burning out

like their deflated

pockets, with enough

left for the ride

home. At midnight, they see

tall faces in the skyline

afar still illuminated,

with cascading gold and colors

in all shapes, yet stagnant.

Lackluster, at its best.

Traverse the alleys and streets,

and they flow like

electricity going through

gaudy copper veins.

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