So the men marveled at ingenious heads of nails. The black became a powder, thicker. From airwaves pinging metallic drift – the baser elements arouse themselves to the lower reaches of our oak and parchment hearts. The alchemist is destroyed by ice. The ice is wet and ice-blue. My hands are stumps against your clever fists. The lightning forks and clouds around our salinated flesh. All is deeply ended in the silence, resonant.
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