The sound is heard on the lips of the wounded, gracing the tongue like a corset, dry vibrato trapped on an island of uncertainty. It whistles in the daylight and cries at the cloak of the closing day, jagged shrapnel in a gaping wound. We know not what lies beyond the throaty trapdoor- nor do we know what pollinates the cackle or spurs the relief. The cold bristles at our necks, a clasp of despair being held together for the miniscule sake of the unknown eye.
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