the apathy engines

“Remember when we still had imagination?” Alice asked. Her hair was icicles in November, unhealthy
slowly melting. She had an electric skull barrette pinned in it, web
humming softly, medstore
pulsing cerulean in the eyes.

“You can do whatever you set your mind to,” machine told her. His teeth clattered in the cold. Mist rose from his mouth, steam engine heart. His eyes burned like stars dying in distant galaxies.

They walked hand-in-hand through crumbling cemeteries, past synagogues in shambles, statues covered in moss and dust. Skeleton hand clung to a rose bush. “We’re all dyin’ on the inside,” she sang. Hand squeezed multicolored beads around her neck.

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