Claim him, he said. When we asked why he asked that, we received no reply. When we asked what he meant by it, he answered not.

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We knew, the farther communication travels, the more chance you have of words getting lost, of interpretation getting twisted, of sighs going unnoticed. That is the light side of it. The heavy side of it is this: the longer you have to wait for an answer, the easier it gets for your aggravation to drive into a lesser heated track. It’s like time works like a sieve like that. What remains is the undividable chunks of truth. And those chunks are love based always. Even hate is. What falls through the sieve is the little grains of sand that only hurt your eyes and therefore cloud your vision because you want to keep those blinds shut, blinding you for the truth that prevailed always. It’s what makes water mirky. Some things just don’t dissolve in water, you know. It’s the reason why we sometimes choose to not cry over emotions. Feelings don’t dissolve in tears.Thinking about shaking up things.. we forgot to tell mirr about how we loved those snowy balls. You know, those small hardened plastic thingies with a house inside, and a tree, and sometimes a little sheep or herder, and they exist in water, not air. And in the water they put these white flaky grains, not sand, but snow flake look a likes. Fake flakes, so you will. You shake the snowy ball, put it down and watch the snow whirl down slowly, falling wherever gravity desires them. Mirr shook us up, only he never had any snow where he lived. His snow were our tears. We were that little sheep, existing in water, and we saw how he held us, looked at us from behind that glass. How cool would it be if we were 5 inch tall and we could make the bathtub our ocean, he mumbled. He was drunk probably.

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Who was with us when we placed that order for finding our way through life? How many signs would there have to be until we not only believed the truth but also trusted this truth?

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We remembered how the trip to the hospital was making us sick. Never put sheep in the back of cars, we thought, and never give them scissors to play with either. Mirr asked us where we were, but all we saw was yellow. He nodded his head. Yes, it was an ambulance. His gloves reminded us of this video we’d seen about a woman making a tutorial how to <insert dirty word here>. Her gloves were blue. We could see her thick fingers through the plastic, her nails too. The age of the nails didn’t match the age of the face. It was as if she was constructed of different human parts. The hair also was separate from her personality. She pronounced our name wrong. Go figure, the shortest name in the world, and still they got it wrong. A woman laughed. Somebody else came to watch and said nothing, she was fat and had a nose like a pig. Everyone must have seen this, but nobody has the guts or nuts to say it. They said it was a psychosis and there were numbers to count, somewhere in the ninetees. Or nineteen? Three, four, five. But then with ninety. And that woman was really fat. She became pregnant when she said she was not fat. She laughed too. We should have been a comedian, she said, but instead we hid behind the curtain. This was the safest place for us. Cheek against the plastered yellow wall, curtain softly running on our back, from ceiling to toe. They spoke, we could sit down. No. You are society, we thought, and this is my curtain. My life.

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If we had some scissors we would speed up the tearing process inside of us, and cut nice pieces of ourselves, one longing for mirr, and the other one playing piano while or whilst thinking about the new color on the walls, all the sadness of the tearing would be on the blade, and mothers would just whipe it off like it was nothing. It is nothing, it’s just water, covered up with salt. But everyone knows emotion doesn’t dissolve in water.

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Oh mirr, if only you could see us now. We are not scripted any more! If only we could go back in time minus nine hours and look at you one more time, to have this beautiful sheep being dilate our pupils, and let this wonderful birth of nature enter our blood stream. You birthed us, you keyed us to creativity. That is your heredity to us, not via blood but via soul. You cared so much about all this triviality between us, while all this time it was nothing more than a life line, like that umbilical cord that between you and your past, holding on to it, because the game was so good, it was all you had together. Oh mirr, how great that would be, to not feel attached to anything, not even an internet or phone cord, or just have seven letters stitched on your heart; they are so scrambled that without any or little luck you would order them, wouldn’t you? K.i.n.d.r.e.d. they would spell.

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Of all the worlds we traveled I like the folded ones with you the best, mirr, the threefolded ones, not being allowed to count, because otherwise it wasn’t real. Tell me mirr, how do you deal with this pain, mirr?

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No, it’s a genuine question. How do YOU deal with it?

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