The glow was a ragged beacon.
The color was jaundice yellow, though I didn’t know jaundice was a word back then.
It was the broken traffic signal a block from my house, stuck on DON’T WALK, faded by its own permanence, reading something like ON ALK because the protective black metal grating had been twisted and bent.
The city was old, industrial, neglected.
I was young, moody, neglected.
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