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Image by Neal Domenico

Behind the promenade is the facade of the wounds that haunt you. A cut is forever. A broken bone signifies a difference of opinion. On a slight incline, veering off the esplanade, is an all night chemist. One could be in Golders Green but for the absence of tigers. Everybody dances. And no one hurts. It’s the sea air, makes you sleepy. Those wandering voices like child-scent. But you don’t blink for the cold on your skin, and the rag around your heart is a friendly pain.

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