Language is magic. Every sentence spoken is a spell; every speaker, a magician. Those of us who are fortunate remember when words were free! When we could wrap them around our bodies for safety. Words were invitations, not curses.
Not then.
The ones with the blank eyes communicate with points and grunts. They get by, but there is no art to it. No feeling. They are shadows.
The ones who live underground are terrifying. They scuttle between alleys and they scrabble for scraps with torn, bleeding nail-beds.
The “statues” are already dead. They sway to the blues coursing through their bloodstreams. They are human apparitions. You stop seeing them eventually, but at first they can be very unsettling.
Please know, the ones who live under the streets are not the rich who live in bunkers. They still wear white linen and gold. Underground is paradise for them. I am speaking of the ones who live with the rats, not the ones who engineered the disaster.
I am the one who remembers the words. They mean nothing, but they calm me. I say them under my breath while I separate skin from bone.
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