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The Romance Of Streetlights

I've always found streetlights strangely beautiful.

I'm sure more people would, if only they took the time to look up. We often ignore what our eyes can't see, but then again, you can't ignore what your eyes never know. 

Bright, like candles hanging in midair above the terraces and ever changing colours of the traffic lights below. Above the green go, amber slow, red no, they stand stationary waiting for the light to break the dusk. 

Nothing but still, watching the blur of headlights and metal speed past along the grey streaks dotted with white that line their each side. Silent and static amidst the chaos. It's a sight to look up and see this luminescence framed by some vast expanse of dark and stars flickering softly in the background. "Turn your head up" is all they'd ever ask if they could speak. Politely, of course.

Rather this than roses and a box of chocolates.
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Well, isn't she just the most wonderful abandoned building I've ever seen? 

Outside in, so promising. Potentially exquisite. It's sad, really, the state she's in. The regal red brick facade trying to mask her deteriorating interior. Oh, how it's trying. Her ceilings have all but collapsed under the weight of what she was. Her wallpaper lines the floors rather than the walls, torn and shed, damp and shamed with moss. Her rooms lay bare and still with the cold drafts that breeze through doorless panels. 

She's falling apart in isolation, and I can only look on. 

She's cold now. So cold. It's such a shame. She used to be a thing of beauty, you know. You could only imagine the charm she possessed, the faces she lit up, the warmth she brought with nothing else but her presence. She was home. Now all that's left to remind us of that are the crumbling fireplaces, staircases, pockmarked traces of love and untied shoelaces.

Wonderful, wasn't she.