No Tweets

Do you still see the echo of the bomb? Think, girl, think.
…three horses lay motionless in the street…no policemen…just bits…and the horses were intact…foam still clung to their mouths…the legs seemed like they would move, awkwardly at first, then find their hooves and pounce away, reborn…
Day three. I cut another notch into my arm. The first was still a bit bloody. The second, raw. This one, like scored chicken skin…my watch had stopped…flames still patted the sides of the neighbours houses…
A warm fridge. Heat blasted sofa. Misty glass TV…
…and no tweets…

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