some call it ghost. others bind it with a name. it is a tragic waste of flesh and bone; grows weary of chasing dreams such as the moon trails the sun. compassion welcomes apathy into his bosom and hopes to heal the hurt, hopes to remove the balled up pearl of pain inside it. -- no pearl, no pain, he says. it doesn't understand, but doesn't refuse his guidance. it is, after all, an echoing song of gilded butterflies within its belly.

 
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