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A Boy's ClinicThere are no hours under the earth. The Priestesses of the Temple of the Weaver keep star-charts and long counts to mark the cycles and keep the year in holy observance. The Great Houses, direct descendants of the first dark elves, are said to deploy astrologers to the overland to keep track of their auspiciousness and help them further their greatness by choosing auspicious times to do their auspicious things. But down in the lower levels of the city, there are no hours, only the lingual memory of them from a time long gone when the elthelir lived under the sky. Certainly time may be counted, but no one does so beyond their own needs. A day is nothing more than the time it takes for an individual to feel the need to take their rest. Fortunately the messenger called upon the physician when she had already gotten her rest. It was a far walk to travel under-slept, and while the passage of time might be vague to others, it pressed crucially on the mind of a physician.
Ishrasse had been gi
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
longdead leafa longdead leaf
burnt brown in the depth of green
cups a handful of fresh water
a leaf left behind
holds something of worth
forgoing death with its dead body
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