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Oxygen: deployed. Little shining metal clips clipped into little yet slightly larger metal clip casings, thick black rope digging into stomachs, tattooing red lines into giving flesh. Screaming, inevitability. Sick bags sagging. The sound of the engine as it gives in to the end of the world is the clearing of a throat. The sky is torn open, flimsy cloth, exposing its chest. The tube that hurtles into its oblivion is an esophagus riddled with cancerous growths, and they are screaming, all of them, leaking and spewing and filling each others ears. Vodka and peanuts jive and shake upon a cater...
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