We watch the rotted money conduct importance. Painfully, amid the symphony, up our ordinary view. There is intention, or there was, but it is broken. There was a limit, but the world is bending, and it is ablaze. Vultures, sad and enormous and luminous, slowly encircle and urge. Digesting with their eyes because they've removed their stomachs.
I have tried to remain friendly under the weight of all this gold, but it is too much for me. I was not made to be blackened, to breathe this smoke. Somewhere between the clever and the criminal is where I'll have to lie.
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