The air in the narrows makes tidy museum pieces of rotten fruit, spilled fluids. Oldenberg. Jackson Pollock. Shriveler\’s Block. The smell is not pronounced but stutters, pops like yellow buttons on Mickey Mouse\’s pants Close to the floor emptied flat as a foundling floor show unable to flee Even the paint on the wall reminds one of spoiled flesh traumatised, distressed Halitosis. Piss. J.K. Rawling on a bad day beset by dowts crowsfeet on linoleum
All the wizards are dead There is no turning the corner.
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