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The sickly sun falls behind ochre clouds, almost apologising for illuminating the final moments of the day. In its embers, the evening air boils with insects, screaming as the shadow of night falls upon their countless billions.
A crow takes to the air, disturbed by movement in the ridge hive of chimneys and gables and spires. Lice dance upon the sickly bird, feasting as it soars over this fractured city. Below, streets are lashed by wire and chain-ferry, countless bridges rotting in the acrid air—a cat’s cradle of structures gazing downward. Brine, they call this city, but it has many other names. Stitched. Hive. Sweat Town. Despair. —Richard Pett, Crooked
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