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Malone
Gryphon Akridge-Phillips
I count the simultaneous scarlet red blinking radio towers in fog-ridden Malone. Beacons that lead
us away from the dark place, quarter past midnight.
Everlasting, these 40ft metal giants are immortalized like The Turritopsis dohrnii, who waits to collapse back to transdifference.
I wonder if you, too, retreat when the wolf bares their fangs with a sort of reverence
Or
Maybe there is a soul-sick sadness in the deference displayed?
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