by Andrew Nadezhdin
White
capsules are going up and down. Chewing mouth. Noise. Unfamiliar voices blended
with mechanical whispers. Metal rays over my head. Dusty green looking like
artificial ones. Glimpses. Sick yellow. Clock hands are ending up their round.
Sweet cake
tastes bitter in dry mouth, coffee burns my throat. Minutes pass, capsules
still go back and forth, but with different unpredictable pattern.
They carry
people, tired from buying, acquiring, purchasing, getting, consuming and
devouring. I carry myself, doing the same.
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