I am the smallest among bodies lining the floor. The first breath of morning swells, magenta bruises forming on the window glass. Around me, the rhythm of dreams alternates; fruitless branches swaying inside the room's blueish walls, greyed with lack of light, as if foreshadowing. To some, we are in the White City. To others, we are playing house in the hornet's nest. To me, we are whatever war makes of us.
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