Veal Cries

They arrive in order, Each newborn assigned a number and a tiny stall. Housed alone in narrow white cells, they learned stillness only after crying themselves empty for the warmth of their mothers that yearned to love them back.

These huts stretched outward like a language of denial: clean, bright, efficient, and infinite. A system designed to look gentle while rehearsing disappearance. Milk was already theirs to lose. Flesh already accounted for. What stood here was not care, but preparation—rows of living beings held just long enough to become something else.

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