The collective desire of City 64: To exit from the entrance.
The news that a son had been eaten came at three thirty-three in the afternoon.
At first the news was no more than a current of air brushing past the old faded clippings on the Democracy Wall and the apolitical colors of the national flag. Everything was scattered by the breeze like blossoms in azalea season. The professor bent down, and then further down, to pick up a broken fin...