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July 14, 2013

She’s gasping for air, breathing in the burning cities. Her heart filled with smoke that brings her body nothing but burning and infection and bare thoughts. Sinking to the bottom of a sea of indifference her eyes open and close like oriental fans splayed about the floor. Light stains her face as she turns off all the lights to breathe in the air from the unlit candles. The reflections paint the ceiling with doubt and her fingernails tap against the windowpanes, trapped in an attic, a closet of antiques, a Havisham, untouched by age.

She licks her lips and tastes the fig jam in the corners of her mouth and stares out the window at the street below watching things happening without her, as if she’d never been downstairs, as if her presence was optional in this world.

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