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        the bright sunlight splash-splsshd
        across the street perched

        on telegraph poles
        across telephone wires as



the warp and weft of ebb from the days when some cars were painted ochre and road-traffic was already acquiring its own saturation of speed all amidst the hatching of verticals and horizontals, a heady mixture for a gazing teenager wondering not only what it was he has to do but also within which direction



cars wormhole: ‘in my car I pass…’
sound wormhole: Journey