a Centaur and its Lady

The sounds of melody long have gone.
Gold lockets, tight disordered tight-pants. The sound of money.
Washed face people standing over the floor built upon the people of before. Of the grit and grime of creativity, of indifference ingrown.
Built above it a society unaware of color, of dirt.
This story doesn't contain any real people, only what people really are. The sound of the singer with golden locks and tight faded red pant.

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