The Faded Portrait
We have been here for thirty years, you and I, in this apartment that smells of damp wool and the sweet, rotting sweetness of overripe pears, and I tell you, I tell you right now, that the city is eating us alive, it is chewing on the edges of our lives with teeth made of glass and steel, and we are just the soft fruit in its mouth, soft and sweet and getting bruised by the pressure of...
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