It is okay to be the night. It is okay to be a shopping cart stolen and ridden by teenagers miles from its strip mall of residence. Left in a small rural tunnel cars drive through one at a time. It's always cooler under there and there's a dripping from the highway above that grows algae on the walls. A lovely, pale Matisse green. It smells like the wet of ancient mosaic. Algae skin that gets so little light, you are pretty. Wall, I like that sound you make with your mouth. Little shopping cart, come with me. I will take you to your mother. She is probably frantic.
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