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As I saunter, crashing upon the shingle beach of meanness, hate, and malevolence; I reach out. I reach out for help, for four fingers to caress my chaffed hand. Standing solitary amidst the mob, my mid boils over in unrest – how could the world not hear my tunes?

How could no one see the truth? Which lane did Humanity leave its Human in?
What child will I name, with what name? What name for the world to drag down?

I reach out. I reach out for us.

I find but the gusty wind, and the silence of rejection.


Prose: Madame Meow

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