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Atlanta is empty, is gutted of history, of people,
hard to fathom it any other way—so impeding
is the hollow city skyline, our eyes grew so
accustomed to abandonment because internal
nakedness can’t conceal itself. But no one’s sure
of what exactly we once refused to acknowledge:
was it the building or
its emptiness? Chants of
dissidence ricocheted from the For-Leases, to the
Going-Out-of-Businesses, sounds endless, street
to street, shell to shell. Snake marches disintegrated
in downtown amongst buildings and people the pigs
keep evicting, keep murdering. Hearts discovered
anger here, how it cures alienation, then we lost
ourselves and subsequently found each other (broken
windows are doors) and the city was ours for the taking.

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