seven quintillion five quadrillion (andalus) wrote,
seven quintillion five quadrillion
andalus

I do feel it, sometimes, in the arts library, in the architecture building, the weight of it, the building, its bones, though I never was much a fan of that brutalist chic, maybe, though at least it's not that faux-old awfulness on display everywhere else, at least, but inside the building, in the basement, under these bones, these concrete bones, I feel it, sometimes, the building, as if everything could burn away, glass wood and books, people, there would still be these bones, weighty, fragile in the way large things are fragile, an old elephant of raw stone, scored with ridges, like nerves, like skin, like bones, sad and old and heavy, made of gravity, made to be unmade, but for now made.
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