Word: greys
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From their balconies and windows high in Warsaw's party headquarters, top-rank Communist officials stared grimly down on Jerusalem Avenue. There, in the March slush, a mob of 10,000 students from Warsaw's two largest universities converged on the grey building, howling slogans, pelting police with bricks and smashing windows with rock-centered snowballs. Across Poland last week, the regime of Wladyslaw Gomulka gazed in alarm upon similar scenes in what became the country's most menacing riots in eleven years...
...They went willingly and gently, two by two, singing "Leaning on the everlasting arms." For the most part, in keeping with Memphis tradition, police have kept their cool, even when 200 youngsters invaded the steps of city hall to hold a mock funeral, solemnly burying "Justice" in a borrowed grey casket...
Choice Graffiti. From the outside, the club could hardly be plainer. Except for a black awning, a red flag emblazoned with a monkey wrench, and a stream of Rolls-Royces arriving and departing, the grey, two-story building looks no different than it did in World War II, when it was a factory turning out bombsights. Inside, the proletarian theme continues with chicken-wirescreened windows, secondhand tables bought at auction for $5 apiece, and bartenders who are togged out in dungarees and blue denim work shirts...
...publisher at a time. Typically, he will send out letters to about 20 publishers informing them in glowing but vague terms about a sure-fire bestseller. After a sufficient number of nibbles, Meredith sets his H-hour, and on the big day-watches synchronized, manuscripts neatly packed in grey boxes-a platoon of messengers fans out across Manhattan to deliver their valuable cargo to the publishers. Fevered reading is then followed by even more feverish bidding...
...simple bourgeois shot of the Prudential looking calm like Sunday morning and the sports page. On the pavement three dark figures from an ominous Other World spin a tiny street caper. Cut away and up through telephone wires to a rolling grey sky. Then abruptly to a bloodless flower child running running running along Graduate-white walls, down the empty spaces of a railroad yard, into some urban junkland moor, all this under a categorically blue sky and the electronic fallout of Streetchoir music tortured backwards through a tape-recorder. A conversation is heard. The flower child finds a blackjacket...