The apparitions tango to the sound of their heels tapping. A procession of prosthetic limbs and mannequins. They're all perfect models of imperfection.
Alongside all hearts. As they finish with backdrop cities. As jagged teeth are digging deeper. Ripping new wounds for former scars. Stricken with insomnia.
Its the consequence of privileged information. You can run, you can hide but light will find a way. And wither away, haunted and haunting. We all are followed by shadows from martyrs and mercenaries.