The Cost of Ugliness

I sit in a living room made of trash and notice once again that there is no one anywhere.

This is to say, the neighbors have bloomed a favela around the bin station. Couches, night stands, bouquets of blankets, bed spreads, and toy motorcycles. Two Persian carpets have large burn holes in them.

Liquor bottles are fuming ethanol. There are no people in the dead-end beside. No taxis.

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