Iustitia has done nothing but deceive us, smash us into the dirt, blacker than the night that suffocates us in our sleep. I gasp for air.

Our city has always been loud but never to the point of chaos. The streets would echo with the sweet melodies of jazz trombones, open-air frying machines, rustling leaves, and neighborly chatter. Then the sirens began to cry and lights began to flash.

LIBRA CITY BY ANIA ALBERSKI 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 113

We are tilted 55 degrees in the wrong direction, tipped toward destruction. Our throats are choking on sorrow.

Our city has always been loud but never to the point of chaos. The streets would echo with the sweet melodies of jazz trombones, open-air frying machines, rustling leaves, and neighborly chatter.

Then the sirens began to cry and lights began to flash.

Our land is made of glass, a flat, fragile plane, swiveling between heaven and hell. This platter is suspended between clouds and high-flying birds, barely clutching the atmosphere but somehow responsible for carrying all our weight and burdens.

We are living on the exact edge between right and wrong, and Judgement Day falls upon us frequently.

We are slipping away from our origins, hanging on by a thread.