Plastic mask taunted water-marks, brandishing its translucent features under rain-fall, bending where a neck would go and peering up to count each raindrop as they struck and slid and blended in with puddles and pools.
“A puddle counts as one name.” Plastic mask announced their decision much to the water’s dismay, as it wanted to be considered an individual.
Clay mask had worked their masters colors to resemble a face, with nostrils staring like Nietzsche’s abyss, baby blue irises which never stared beyond the room, or blinked at the sun.
Obulus payments accredited to closed minds sterilized Heaven’s gate, enough for the light to guide a soul to the Casino.
Is the empty space
Where a reply should go.
Wrinkles welcome their final destination.
Insisting an open mind
Operates like a mask.
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