history repeats as ciphers become complete...

(word to the drum beat)

The wind sounds just like we remembered, just like we had hoped…Everyone and everything is bathed in a supernatural light. The old drunk with his beer by the mailbox, the Polish mother with the swollen eyes and transparent vinyl babushka tied tightly around her head. Her flaxen haired son runs ahead into a rush of airborne newspaper. His arms wave and the paper birds flap their wings. He is an angel and the sky is a bell; it knocks back and forth, ringing relentlessly. I want to blast a bullet through the top, just like in that U2 song. I feel everything coming together and falling apart, like the magic number itself, splitting and dividing in the sky.

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