The day I found the library

Home,
immediately I know this place would be the start and end of my travels.
Three floors of the real organized super highway that doesn’t cause eye strains.

It took twenty years to discover the records of the biggest local library in my vicinity.
All welcome;
home bearers and the nomadic,
Smelly and the extra smelly, circumstantially elegant and egalitarian.
A joint I would frequent.
A Real Hip Hop movement was scratched into the glass of the men’s restroom,
I suppose to reflect back on the souls of the individuals and groups making it happen.
I’ll see them at open mics later.
A man at an old school type writer tells me of what I’ve been missing;
his eyes look like a long lost friend.
A high school girl named Britney with extraordinarily white teeth and voluptuous features enjoyed the beginning of this poem, I’ll find someone to finish the rest.
The race is on, my friends old roommate, who also I worked with at a substantially more boring venue, where art is forced on eyes and not chosen.
He smiles and says hi,
the magazines collection waits, ideally.
As I prospect homelessness would not be so bad in this area!

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