We wander, we waver, we explore. Our followers, ever present, ever complacent are the only constant factor in our journey. A parabola we are, a baseball lazily tossed into the sky with the potential to contuse the countenance of a 9 year old child. We leave you 8 amazed. As we stealthily and expediently sprint down an alley in the backwards and ruffian-laden district of Scars, miles and miles from greeting your smily faces, you still turn up. Your pack, you squadron of open minds and eyes, you peek around the corner, you sniffed and followed our tracks. You are a disappointment.
In a world of such chaos as this, constancy is ludicrous. How the hell are there still 8 of you? We have tried to lose your track. We have attempted to shake you off like obstinate beads of water on our thighs, like the clenched jaw of a dachshund hound firmly and unrelentingly fastened to our crotches. You remain.
Perhaps the number is not truly as it appears. Perhaps the figure is dormant upright, not slumbering on its side. That is the only coherent explanation for such a ridiculous phenomenon as this.
Leave. Go. I demand this of you. Gain more velocity, anything. Change. This number cannot stand and it will not stand. If you have no agency in this, I will take it upon myself to implement said removal. I am the exterminator of Scarsdalean citizens in disguise. I must do this. For my sanity. For my lunacy. Go.
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