1925 | day 17 | freewrite
the moon hangs low breathing sleeplessness across the city endless smokestacks blur the air grey fills the sky, soft and slow
the midnight oil burns on fumes choking assembly lines grubby fingers get caught in gears pulverized by steel, all but gone
the wineglasses clink, celebrating good business and money they're joyous for the night ignoring the debt in which they'll sink
the moon fades as the night flees the skyline made of liquid gold memories of the night faint carried away by the city's breeze