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The city has had its jaw washed off. Its eyes dried up and shriveled. Its ears sloughed back into the scalp, the smile like an open-faced sandwich. The city's neck has snapped, the crick is a brutal dogleg, posture like punctuation. The city breathes, hisses, through the cavernous nostrils, one distended and prolapsed. In a hundred years the city will begin to scab over. Hard healing husks, bustling and bristling with activity, the kind of illiterate wriggling that Nature does when something is very very wrong. [Free]Posted by Dan at November 9, 2012 2:35 PM
oooh I like this moodPosted by Cynthia at November 9, 2012 5:13 PM