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sh!thawks...on parade

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explosions in the underground, while rain falls from above, the sweet, musty scent of it bathing buildings, bathing ruins, breathing in the footfalls of the city as it climbs up and up and up until the clouds sit at its head, and the people wander around in a daze thinking how far away they should be.
overhead the curtains call, and close upon the glinting windows of glass cages and towers, capsules to be swallowed and eaten, traps for the most freely bound, and when the water falls, it caresses them, lines like lovers skin, waterfalls on sheets of ice, mired in a mist that never goes away.
Stand up, the marchers are calling you. Stand up, in the clouds circling round so that one day you can wake up,
And tell yourself that you're forever blind if you don't reach a hand above them.


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