Still in the city with slow blood. Awnings heave full like guts then sink then shake their stripes reproachfully.

It is your average haunting. Thieves and librarians. We wake wearing both pinstripes and polka dots in antagonistic colors. 

The grocers stare through eyelashes and iron grates. Few carrots, too many pears. Yesterday, a train barreled through the pool hall and I finally won the game.

I have the password and a pale daughter who spits from her ears.

The place you seek is under the four-chambered fire station. We eat the lightning trees and wait. Signal with your one white hair.  


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