“That’s /so/ Miami,” they say, and immediately segue to south of relevance; cook a pig on the hot pavement in celebration of something no one’s saying: you’ll never manage to get out of here. No, really. No matter how many flights desperately booked, greyhounds taken defeatedly, diets laden with lard and swine, or questions begged of indigestion — this city is a bag everyone has got their hands in at the same time, a bag of stale pork rinds.
“When I was turned off I was, for some time, sensible of very great pain occasioned by the weight of my body and felt my spirits in strange commotion, violently pressing upwards. Having forced their way to my head I saw a great blaze or glaring light that seemed to go out of my eyes in a flash and then I lost all sense of pain. After I was cut down, I began to come to myself and the blood and spirits forcing themselves into their former channels put me by a prickling or shooting into such intolerable pain that I could have wished those hanged who had cut me down.”
— John Smith, recounting the experience of his public execution by hanging at Tyburn in 1705. Having been turned off the back of the cart, he dangled for 15 minutes until the crowd began to shout for a reprieve, whereupon he was cut down and taken to a nearby house where he soon recovered (via rossbennett)