We live in the snow globe with flimsy buildings, our eyes bright with glitter and our lungs slow with glycerine and antifreeze. We’re a scene from a city that’s been scrubbed from the map, its streets lined with bricks and boots, its bones stuck raw through scorch-black walls. It’s a city fissuring beneath a tightening glass sky, a breathless bubble purposed for storms, a nexus of trembling hands that shake dead space into brief terrors. A woman in coat as red as a fairytale circles a scarred square, dragging a basket full of children who cry in the cold like a cracked carillon struck by sharp hammers. Mosques and museums, churches and chain stores, are little but stories on flimsy paper and frozen tongues. Fi-fi-fo-fum: glitter in the air and poison in our lungs. The city shakes.




Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor


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