City SleepNicole Steinberg
We make the move to Tokyo. Our plastic umbrellas shine like windows of black angled towers, gazebos draped in sakura. I don't love much more than a skyscraper. Every night, I call old friends from the future, you tell me a bedtime story of birds that fall right to sleep when the sharp of the needle skims its way into their docile brains, we cherish our lives in the city. Trains, cars, bedrooms, all stop and go, all same-sided beads that curl our white necks.
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