A brown shoe in the middle of the road. Behind, the sirens whirr, the crowd is confused, and the hysterics of the loved will echo long after the day is done. With its toddler Nike sign and glow in the dark strings, the forgotten shoe is the antithesis of joy, yet it holds the happiest memories. The car's dank oil travels the tar and circles around the sole, but never touches. Night will fall before a suit takes it away. Goosing his skin, behind him sad wind whispers through insightful trees: Michael.
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