phage/formal

by waxbanks

the children here are feral and wise to unnameable impulses, which doesn’t faze the hunters

the city vaults across the mountains on angelbone struts and within its borders the living light makes loneliness impossible, which doesn’t faze the hunters

every guitar is always tuned, which doesn’t faze the hunters

a single penstroke in the right light beneath the proper sign is said to be able to capture three lifetimes’ worth of pain and portend three lifetimes’ worth of joy, and wasteful writing is seen as a form of malign madness, which doesn’t faze the hunters

no food is prepared more than an hour in advance and the war stops every night for dinnertime, which doesn’t faze the hunters

high in the clock tower overlooking the greyest quarters of the steel city there are bird-men with no voices of their own, no wings, only the memory of flight which the wise among them know can’t possibly be theirs, must be an imposition, a punishment, and they should never have entered service to dangerous men and the sound of the clock hourly beating like a great iron heart is ruinous but they never ever leave, which doesn’t faze the hunters

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