at 16x speed, their hands resemble ants scrambling over fresh carcasses--
tracing patterned memories of an old order that still pumps blood to their eyes and
drinks their regrets.
they cut past time spent on enemy images and romantic entanglements,
quixotic visions of mercurial dreams--
in remedy of gone opportunity,
weathered and internalized,
holding on like ice cubes at the bottom of a glass.
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