And they talk and they dance and they feel the wet grass under their feet. They look free, appear free -- act freely. The light peeks through her blonde hair. Everyone has a nickname because their real, given names are far too intimate. They share secrets but their secrets are lies -- they're hiding something. They spin freely, wildly, madly -- lacing fingers and arms and whispering prayers of eternity. The words themselves are even more intangible than their wishes. They lack communication and rely on the waxes and wanes of the moon for signs of decision.
We know who you are and we know how sad you've become. We're all spinning. Like fireflys tied to a string that hangs from some stagnant branch. We know they can't hear our whispers but we pray aloud anyway. For love, compassion, tenderness -- something above our spinning. Something that will cause us to slow down.
They burn but never bloom. The spinning never stops and the compassion never comes.
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