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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They travel without maps—only the rhythm of the walkways and coffee stains on edges of napkins. They carry crumpled metaphors in their pockets that they snatched mid-flight from passing trains, each stanza a temporary shelter. They trade sonnets for soup in dimly lit diners, syllables simmering next to weak broth. Their ink stains the borrowed pages of the world~ never owning, always belonging.
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