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Cicada Days
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keep running yoshi
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Four pairs of hands intertwined on those days when it was early, yes. Tina did so quietly enjoy those calendar dates where she payed worship, her spine set at a light angle over the sweat and blood of fibers woven of the earth. Her hands and their efforts and their cramps and convulsions were tithes. Paid with nary a word, for Tina found syllables that drifted and died upon first harsh impact with flesh. She was told otherwise, but had yet to observe exceptions to the omnipresent rule knitted into the blanket of reality by a maker whose image existed on Earth.

"This far."

The car ground itself into shards of shale and lingering sunlight. A final verbose bounce of their seating was their last motion, then all was still. For but a moment, then Tina's hands found a distracted task in her pockets. Fabric breathed like lungs. Lungs collapsed, as Tina struggled to hold back black particles from within. Struggled to pull out small mummified strands of bud also from within. She produced the spectrum of dull, organic colors and shapes and presented it to her cousin at the necessary angle to put it in her dainty porcelain hands.

Tina exited her door with the neat unfolding of metal and body. Two angles and one eighty degrees of direction and howling desert wind. Quickly she was by the opposite door, lingering to provide a hand if it was needed. She had two, and for now needed none. She needed a breath, but she didn't want to betray the ugly and noxious scents of her sordid addictions. They were best kept inside, even as they percolated and carved a space in her chest.

A small outcropping of wind-smoothed rock reached to the heavens beside them. A cove from stormy seas, that stars liked to gently caress like a baby's bassinet. Only in the most extreme of distances where the eyes melted into horizons was a town called home still visible.
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Repoussoir · Memories from the Past