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fancy


My nation is a dress uniform, like all nations. Distinctive, colourful, old, mass-produced. Six sizes too big. If I wear it I am legible to you, you I haven't met. It veils me when I meet you and don't want to be met by you. It lives in the cupboard (I don't have to meet many people).

It's usually nice to own it - something to don when surrounded by notional barbarians, to set myself apart in my different barbarism. Though often people point to it, saying that I am my frock coat, or that I'm wearing my frock coat when I'm not wearing it. This isn't fun, as no forced game is fun. At least my coat isn't caked in shit and blood, like yours. (Like all coats, it is caked in shit and blood, but at least mine isn't on the outside.)

Like all regiments, my regiment thinks it is special: not many people have these coats. But wearing any coat makes you less rare: you leave your kingdom singly for a low foothold on Leviathan.

No one will spit on my coat, unlike yours. It is humble and demotic. The regiment's crimes were quiet crimes, or else loud crimes with none left to say.

Frock coats are new. There are no frock coats, we just pretend we're wearing frock coats to humour each other. It is cold without them. But it it wouldn't be, if you stood like so before yours as it burned. Say, can you see?


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