Long dark haired cigarette gypsies wade back and forth.
They pace around old cars and blow smoke.
I am listening to Neil Young in my bedroom, and see them from my window.
Singing about a needle and the damage done, really at that point I only really knew about the sunsets.
I watched the victims of vice. They understood the rest of the lyrics, I counted on them.
“We can still dream.” We would say in passing.
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