The City swallows them in the morning and regurgitates them again in the evening.
Seawater, ebbing in and out of a gray scar. Beaches are created, but so are whales beached.
Like some aging porn starlet's calloused vagina, it has taken and taken. It can no longer feel, but is unaware.
The habit that comes with repetition and the memory of sensation are indistinguishable from actual feeling.
The Robots enter the black box and exit unchanged.
Even the dullest of the machines will question the purpose of the process that changes nothing.
The sharpest will conclude that the purpose is to keep things the same.
Vibrance and Violence, rainbows and shades of brown, are different sides of a two-headed coin.
The City eats its children, then mourns its weight gain and lack of company.
Best read out loud. While playing bongos. Naked. And high.
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