In the distance you can hear the distinct sound of a falling coin.
You hear it everywhere. Students shelling out metal disks like World War 2 bombshells. 1's, 5's, 10's. Where the value for them is equivalent to dust. Mist that is there one moment and gone the next, hardly missed.
These coins are like candy trails, where one hops from one to the next, hardly looking up, only gazing down to search hungrily for the next lead to success.
Everyone looks like hordes of chickens.
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