Critical, creative and digital writingEcriture critique, créative et numérique

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Cough. Cough, cough. Hard breathing, hard air Forming roads in my body that make me despair. Lullaby of honks, songs of the many cars Haunting the city, on my lungs leaving scars. From the seventh floor the city is plane A layer of mist rendering it insane. Embedded in that place, I feel cold on my skin The cold of near death, my conscious surrounding. Coughs of blood I spit into the world From the heights of my place, lungs blackish as merle. The concept city attractive to my senses, Its being experienced puts my body in crisis. Bang! As I'm getting conscious, I'm struck in motion. The car has won, its globalised notions. My back on the road, the blood in my eyes, And this mist of killing and blinding dioxides.