People have been here, like gusts in between broken panes of glass. They were small and discarded. Some still lean against the walls at night, hugging the plaster for warmth.
Dried sweat tinges the air. Cheap vodka. Romance and feigned pleasure.
Ghosts roam these halls, memories shimmering in the fading light. These floors are tired; they have staunchly endured feet padding quickly to the bathroom, boots stomping loudly on the way out the door, blue and white sneakers treading lightly over decades of debris.
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