A residual of a memory clings like sunrise on a dirty street.
If you could hear the horns howl, you wouldn’t mind it.
But it’s all too dangerous, colouring outside the lines we never drew.
Clichés and inevitable turns of the screw mock everything haphazardly.
I hate sprained ankles because of their lack of coherence.
Trying to function as an urban soul is a challenge to linguistic metrics.