Breif on Icarus and his Molting Garden

I’m still sat upon the hill. The water is still, terrifying. Vast even though it’s possible to see the land.
    There is paint under my fingernails. my chest itches.
    I need new t-shirts.
    The winter feels far away. On the hill, littered with bodies, a man or a woman smokes a cigarillo. The smoke covers the sickly smell of dying flesh.
    Silence.
    Pry open my lunch box and peer inside. A dead fly and a tiny piece of cheese next to a hunk of green bread. Special. Southcote green.
    Invisible.
    Plastic.

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