I sit here in agony — every painful minute passes by though it were a slow century of early times.
The crackle of the styrofoam cup in my hand is a welcome comfort, as steam burns off the cheap Spanish coffee.
El Salvadorian shops and food — reflect on gang signs — MS-13 as I dream and shop for an AR-15.
Is it worth the new laws?
Finger prints, felonies and registration by the state.
The cold grips, frozen wind — the girls are covered, their ghetto mouths, steaming lips painted, peering through their jet black eyes.
I watch the trains pull in — crossing — carrying humans like cattle.
What a fuckin’ drill. What a shit show. The grind is very real. It’s vicious, like a boat adrift on the open seas.
Infested with rats who turn on themselves out of starvation…
A ghost ship on a golden Coast.
Is the AR-15 worth it? In this day and age? In this time of turmoil, unrest and unhappiness?
I feel like something big is going to go down.
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