We all have a place where stains originate. Time fades the imprints others leave, but the stain remains.
Originally posted on Random Thoughts of a Money Muse:
The smell of urine, semen and god knows what else (like there’s anything worse) filled my nose 3 stations before the train stopped at ground zero.
I could taste sour things way before. The foulness overtook me. Absorbed in my clothes. I was paranoid about an air-born disease festerering in my liver.
The hollow of a play land called Coney Island-long deteriorated, burned out, rusted, ignored, graffiti ridden, was home to the Terminal Hotel.
Coney Island. Also home to the background for apocalyptic movies.
The Terminal – It thrived, heaved in and out like an Amityville horror house but not as pretty. It was an evil presence that swallowed you whole. A landmark, a beacon, to the hopeless built right across from the elevated train line. There were no ghosts. Ghosts were too smart to linger.
The scary residents long or short…
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