Huge, hedonic, and yet beguiling. Copper weapons flashing in the sun of a Phonecian feast-day for some royal personage, spices burnt in reckless offering, fruits set forth to rot on display, the musk of civets locked into Amber beads with the promise of reviving old men's erections. The sun blasts time into nothing, an ancient grape vine in its dying effort pushes forth a single beady raisin, whose whole output of juice would not fill a thumbnail. That droplet, vinified among bombs and machine gun fire.
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