Blue Inca
Zhiyu Lindy Luo We climbed to the rooftop to see the dying sun, walking on the edge of
time. And beyond, the great beyond, the desert and the sea eroded our eyes—so much so that when we returned, our sockets were no longer
filled with flesh but electric globes. And we cried and cried. We are the
diamond-eyed revolution, the living skeletons, atoned for our lust for life. The sky was painted blue, with Yves Klein’s brushes of living, breathing,
human souls. And we smeared the dye onto our faces like a lost Inca clan in the middle of the Pacific.
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