In Cicero

Ah, there it is. There is nothing as sad and dangerous and beautiful as Cicero at night. Noir was bled from you, Darling. The green and black blurs of the night, everything neon and cancerous, everything light, silent glowing emperor of my own spine. I have seen you, your incandescence in the evening time, like a mermaid city or the suburbs of one, tiny bejeweled shell buried in the sand of the outskirts. You lay just out of reach of the sleeping factory beasts and black rusted bridges that are their tails, your eyes like oil slicks in the bar parking lot, blinking out only when the sun rises.

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