Where people cause a sentimental stir amidst cups of burning hot coffee in the sticky a.m.
Like what I did there?
Where the diamond-encrusted streets sit pretty as a picture with multi-faceted flowers on and all of their own three-pronged accord – which way do they ever get to go?
Amsterdam by ten, twice the ZEN only none of the tummy-fumbling haze
Sycamore days, romance at the creak of dawn when a charming man rests his James Dean exterior against said branch and chances his accustomed arm whilst glaring into Beauty School Dropout’s unlearned eyes
She’s been crying and no such diamond emblazoned footpath glimmering beneath her bare-naked feet shall ever fix that

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