I imagine these meaningless pieces of creation must have a better life; necks, arms, ankles to adorn and the daylight to greet. From the insides of my dark box they depart, leaving me empty and wanting. I look at the hollow 'cake' and know that more coins, string and bells will fill her insides.
Will they ever fill me, like the aftermath of a teary purple rage? Dry, parched, familiar, empty.
PARADOX
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