Broken Images

They were just Broken Images standing before their own broken items. The window he looked out of was his way of getting out, her stories were the outlet she wrote.

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2. D

We sit with such baggage as we let ourselves wallow in.  We let ourselves mourn over loses we didn't know we had.  We let the characters we love die off, like an unspoken species.

What kind of world do we live in?

Riddle me this,

What came first? The Chicken or The Egg?

There had to be an egg to create a chicken, but there had to be a chicken to make the egg.

There had to be a character to create a story, but there had to be a writer to make the character.

Little things like this befuddled her.  She had nowhere to be, not anymore.

The hallow soul she was carrying was no longer contempt.

He left on such a twisted note, not even the doctor's forlorn knowledge could save him.

Never fight, my darlings, it leads to unsafe actions.

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