be a part of my own memories:
to smell the old smells and taste the old tang in the tar-laden air
weave through the old men and women and old plastic chairs
mosaic tables and floors and slow games of chess
astride thick-barked trees that grew old together with the land.
thirty years of accumulated grime squeezed between the bricked pavestones
sepia-toned conversations, childrens' laughter and a more innocent time
flash into memory; the stones at least remember.
it is no crime to be old.
~ Shakes fist at all the proponents of urban renewal. upgrade the facilities but preserve the flavour of the neighbourhood. ~
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