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A single blade balancing the past and future. Parting it. A thin present gash. A fresh stare from fifty years ago. The spread boots still smelling of fresh leather.

Pocket the knife for a day, cut the tasks from the list. Slice away the days.

Poke out the eyes of the avatars. Ignore the pressing weight. Deflate the spheres.

A single dull blade, praying for honing. Flashing in the light to hide its dullness.

Press the edge into the palm of the adversary. They give way, the constant bluff a cloud cut by breeze.

Pry open the buds. The night blooms before the spring with sticky darkness. Blossoms lying about the summer to come.

Metal and sugar and blood. The ingredients for another week.