Minneapolis.

The crowd noise that lives in your mouth like a deserted city of beggars.
Twisted cigars by the moisture from your pyramid body are the scrupulous essence of the street.
And the black palace of the electricity that lights up the plains is the fervent rye of your nocturnal apex.
Delight female.
Smoke is the flare, restlessness is the metropolitan storm.
Routiers gitane.
God's highway.
Remember the sacredness of your visit.
Make a craft, make the winter, realize the broken glass.