Anatomy of a CometGary L. McDowell
Like this, like bullets through a fetus. The remodeling that would then take place. A little to the left of center and down like fear, and then sleep. Water and blood bend through veins and settle like a seed without a fruit, a clot without an artery. This is not breathing. Eyes see but darkness, lips taste but iron. She hears a faint cymbal recede like white noise, like copper, like nickel, a crease of light bloodshot and bound for her lungs— the implosion of cells rocketing through the ruin and roar and into her heave, seeding and cueing the whirl of her body.
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