gregmckster
They scuttle like roaches, over thresholds and through homes. I hunt them, always a step behind, never where I want to be. Kill one, and a thousand more appear. Far better to cut off their food, and let them eat each other.
I try to make them understand.
They cannot see, how could they.
They think I'm mad, I think they're blind.
I see my victims around me.
They talk to me.
They mock me.
But I haven't even killed them yet.
How strange.
Perhaps they'll be gone tomorrow.
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