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The Broken ToyHe was broken toy, not much for the world.And walking high as though he were a king, even the light bent around him, and the sun hid for him. He knew his beauty, fantasized his worth, and walked, and walked, leaving trails of pain in his wake.Even angels wreak havoc, and he was angelic. And where he tread green blossomed, and people threw themselves at his feet. They fought to worship and offered blood, but he could only nod in assent. Nod because his tongue had been tied years before, when the worship had began.To fly like he flew, you must shed the weight of empathy. In cars and planes and over plains in trains, the man moved with stealth and without a sound. Though he traveled in adoration, that worship spawned no religion and held no faith, and was an empty belief. The people who fawned over the man did not know how empty their devotion was, and they did not mean it that way, but all the same they had nothing to show for their sacrifice.And then there was a woman. She was neith
SixtyTenAmazing.Amazing that he could breathe through all the layers of himself so steeply piled on top of him until he looks like a small beetle wrapped up in a tiny ball.Amazing that he could think through the layers of mind fog that had set itself upon his brain- a product of the mind-numbing, sense-altering, thought becoming drugs that he is drowning in. Drowned by Them
and by himself. A victim of Them,Them who force these sedatives on him while he is alsocunningly drinking it by the bottle, away from cold sharp eyes. A punishment from Them becomes a triumph when he is the one administering the poison.So, balled up in his shell or blanket with nothing but his nose peeking out, not thinking a sound nor hearing a thought, numb to the world and dead to himself, amazing that his cold, bony hand with its cold bony little fingers could still slowly find their way out from the folds of his shell or blanket and type the password the almig