The sky is closer in Edinburgh
than anywhere else in the world. Clouds crowd ‘round in riots, Fickly dripping with rain and then Drying up, raisin-like. Pigeons and gulls weave around Bridges and hills In chaotic feathered packs, Cooing and squawking In absurd bird anguish. In secret, slippery nooks, Supernatural spirits whisper and linger Under dim-lit, age-old, stony stairs. The closeness of the sky breeds Infinite life and eternal death, Indistinguishable in the Ghastly, great greyness Consuming the city.
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