At Sebastian Joe’s-omnipresent red walls, sweet-toothed smiles, leather furnishings, and tattered posters.
Uptown has never tasted better.
Local papers mixed propaganda, spread-out reading material in innocuous fashion, fast-forwarding, forecasting a coming truth-I swear to GOD, this is proof.
Local hipsters and self-proclaimed art critics gathered round with passion.
Old man Grab your Cannon!
-This sort of ART MUST BE DOCUMENTED FOR HISTORIC PURPOSES.
The ancient way hear tell of things-candies and treats, as if we got them now as no reward at all.
My grandfather always spoke of the funnies.
Told me stories until I became bored.
Ice cream and cold hands.
Conversations and clouds; there is white in between blue skies.
We make promises on whatever’s on our mind-just killing time.
The ambrosia melts in a moment, but it tastes just as well-don’t it?
We travel bags and bikes.
Hassle at a stoplight.
And the traffic flows slowly down Hennepin Avenue, while I watch as the seconds on my watch tick by.
I think of the past as people slurp, lick, swallow, and enjoy anything on cone or stick.
No plans, I sit at a table with a crumpled napkin, an empty cup, and a white plastic spoon.
Just taking in an afternoon.
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