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The heavens remained pure, except for little white slits on the perfect blue skin that planes cut in the icy upper air, like needles sewing.
From one, a tiny seed might fall that would make a sun on earth. And so the century passed, with me still in it, books waiting on the shelves to become cinders
what we felt locked up inside, waiting to be read, down the long corridor of time.
I was born the year the bomb exploded. Twice whole cities were charred like cities in the Bible, but we didn't look back.
We went on thinking we could go on, our shapes the same, darkened now against a background lit by fire. Forgive me for doubting you're there, Citizens, on your holodecks with earth wallpaper-
a shadow-toned ancestor with poorly pressed pants, protected like a child from knowing the future.
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