The air,
thick with sugared donuts and sweat,
wraps the naked legs
of the teenage girls
roaming in packs,
and is cut only by a set of keys that,
loosed from a Zipper cage,
hurdles over the dense crowd
and, with a violent clank,
lands treacherously close
to the now-pale child
next in line for the tilt-a-whirl.

The matrix flickers.

Fairground catastrophes
suddenly become crowdsourced
to a veritable who's who
of adventurers and con men.

The line for hot dogs and cotton candy

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