The Poor Grass In The New Place

The poor grass in the new place I am strangely idealistic early in the morning. I intimately feel like singing sometimes. There is something close to Times Square at 7:30 AM. You invoice a lot. The desolateness. The workers in their blue jumpsuits, loading and unloading. And the calm in a place not usually known for calm. This is where I wake myself up most mornings with a walk from forty- import to 56th St when I opt to get off the train a little early. The few I run into with some rule smile at me with an unspoken friendship. I find delight in the view of skyscrapers reaching up to the blurry skies.

So different from the reality that is the near-ghetto landscape of Bushwick, the place where I had been solo an hour before. The place where I live. I can almost feel everyday on the L, the second I founder Bushwick, like I?m leaving to another world. That second brings back the memory of another world I left. The baseborn island where I was born, the place I can barely counterbalance remember anymore. ...If you want to get a full essay, roll it on our website: Ordercustompaper.com

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