the setting suns are like the closest burning fires—the cold of the sidewalks and the poorest nights between the deadly campers, they rest on the gravel, the hard grounds and the depth of nerves digging deep into the veins, living in the wooden walls and watching through the keyholes, the children of men, the rope and the stockings, the forgotten polaroids in exchange to the extorted souls and the pipes, the sadist compromising the web of lost bills and the toxins of masculinity, the deep hatred of others, the stolen killers, the slashes across the throat reek of extremist misogyny, the bent elbows and the missing officers, the deep and pervasive tendrils of racism weaving their way into the parking lots and the shopping malls, the punches and the fates keeping the secrets tied under the heavy choke chain, the locks and keys over the happy demeanors and the short definition of trouble letting the knife weave through the dark with ease, pushing the bodies into the arms of the grim sleeper.


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