hopefuldoubtful
Cold Detroit street; thick snow-cover. Absent sun. Been years since this city had the respect it deserves.
No one around when you’re walking to work, but footprints on the path. A message comes: loud though it doesn’t reach your ears. “Meet me halfway,” says the line someone spent time painting, one day not too long ago; someone ready for renewal but knowing he couldn’t—shouldn’t—do it alone. “Meet me halfway,” says the street. Says Detroit. Says the day. No telling what’ll happen if you do.
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