Binary Din

Mixed blessings, a seven-piece band, bubbles around each. A synthetic cathedral swirls around them like a locust plague. The greenery is stripped in seconds, mandibles churning, nothing to read, vacant stares.

Mudras emanate from mannequins like third-grade handwriting.

Strange mix, yelping voice, flash of original ethnic gold, lost again in the din. Red dots blinking, swinging, funny like a video game. Deeper and deeper bass, polyurethane coat, chrome keys, like a new car, someone's baby.

Missing the interplay, the clarity, a precise word, a steady gaze. But instead, stoney brittle smiles, posturing.

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