The night is cool. Crisp. The smell of saltwater is in the air. Hundreds of people mill around. Maybe thousands. Beautiful. Normal. Average. Some are rich, some achingly middle class. The pavement swells under them all. Hard. Cold. Unforgiving. Sometimes the concrete is as alive as the rest of the city. It has it 's own personality. Stretching out like a spider web. Sometimes it 's more alive. Dreaming. Living. Loving. Often, the cold concrete is all some have. Those who feel alone in the middle of a crowd.
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