“Snowman melting from the inside, falcon spirals to the ground, somebody break tomorrow’s clouds.” (David Bowie, This is not America)
It’s on the horizon. Slow and steady, cool and collected, it slides through the atmosphere with sly prowess. The hunter in the trees, the shot in the dark, the shadow on the wall that shrinks back into itself when exposed to light—it waits for opportunity. It watches while we eat breakfast, comb our hair, brush our teeth, go to work, come home and fall back into bed. It feeds off fear and exposes our differences, the steel wedge, the dividing force, the professional antagonist, the coal in the stocking, the fine print—it’s the poison rotting the apple.
I know they can see it. When the traffic thins, the children sleep and the television calls it a night, I know they can see its long thick tail before it jerks…
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