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Cold Bloom

Roses don’t grow in an electronic wasteland.

The only love I’d ever known lived on a screen- through men like machines. Men who only lasted long enough to be loved in parts. Disassembled disasters whose hands moved clockwork magic in a blue lit fog. They were strangers with no names, offering confession in ragged breaths and trembling chests.

Living was hardly more than lucid dreaming. Comatose or ghost- the difference was dimmed and drowned by the brilliance of my pixel soldiers. When I was young, I was an expert in the art of moral suspension. I learned that right and wrong could wait; that if you were numb enough, you could capture and crush heaven into a wireless connection.

Body… after… body

Until I doomed my youth.

Stoker (2013)


 

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