Sun and dust and vitriol, blue sky weather and ribbons of hatred souring the air. Salt trickles down dirty faces, glowering into the broken earth. Radio waves and worn through winds, information seeping through the open veins of the world. The core of the day and the thorn of the rose. Some portion saved for every purpose, some purposes withheld until the end.
Some days you choose why the skin will break, a fist dashed knuckle first against the many bones a face has laying in wait. Other days it is all scuff and scrape and blood let surprise. A loose nail, a wanton plank, the barb that gives the wire its name. Pierced or cut or smashed into pulp, the flesh airs its grievance as the day claims its price. The offering is always on the altar, the altar livid and diffuse.
Once the portion was offered before the feast. Now it is spattered upon the fields and the streets, spread into every gaping lack, made from every haunted want. The sun takes its measures and the earth shares that wealth. So the shovel splits the worm, so the needle takes its taste. Waste and greed and everyone claiming to own everything as it crumbles and rots. The price is paid before it is over. The bill came due before the bargain was ever struck.
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