But finally, our lane of beggared nights would conduct under the democratic gaze of a street-lamp, ennobling shuffling-ups, of tales infinite; each such tale petitioning teary-eyed for glorious Representation, most threatening in razor-sharp prose for absolute Promotion; while crawl forth the winners, unassumingly resplendent on all fours, our street-dogs stray, as abandoned as the night-time, charming each same-same night with their uber-human Otherness.
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