Some call this city “Venice of the North,” but they don’t know the other direction this town goes, and it is not one of the winds.
I know, because I’ve seen it.
Seen what lies beneath the streets, glazed over by blind eyes of tourists snapping photos, dismissed by those who should know better yet still refuse to view.
For the ones beneath need acknowledgement to manifest. Not trust, recognition.
I know, because I don’t trust them. Not one bit. And yet they are there, plain as anything: The Upenders.
They’ve been here before people, and they expect you pay respects. Their mirage is reflected in the still waters of the canals, and when you let yourself go below the floor, beyond the basement, they’ll reveal themselves. If you won’t visit, beware. For when you least expect, they’ll rise to flip yours over, resentful of a willful ignorance of Upending.
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