Momentum ground to a halt just over the bridge out of the city. Interminable waiting for scraps in back alley restaurants. I hush the babble of drying brooks with stern head-shaking. One-sided conversations don't signify. Teflon shoulders and cold-fusion rationale make for quiet evenings. I leave and pack a parachute without strings. I drop with the rain into a blast-zone Soviet dystopia. Over and over, I scrounge for guns and medication. The distant chatter of rifles lends urgency and grounding.
4:01 p.m. - 2017-06-05
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