Canary Wharf

Staring blankly at the highway from the eighth floor balcony of my room at midnight invokes a lot of untapped emotions, of frustrations, of regret, and of love. The highway of chance. I could use a cigarette at that just to blow the breath out, exhale the foul vibrations away, keep the soul burning like a whelp as I am. My eyes flutter, as if dosed and mesmerised, barely given any fortune to see the beauty of the yellow lights below. I can see life from here. Nothing more than an imagery of hedonism, a symbol of undeserved luxury. As I faint to the chair behind, everything moved on its own, drifting from left to right including the unstarred night sky. I look down exactly vertically below to feel my prick squirm and my heart increasingly alert. The sounds of London are ever so relaxing, including the imaginative next-door bickering, the smell of poison and wax, and the anticlimactic twist of a man unmoved, guilty by association.

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