Movement One.

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There was a boy.
He sat on the cliff by the sea.
Never moving.
Forever static, like an art piece.
Perennial.
While the stars set on the water.
Creating a false illusion of beauty.
Beauty to hide the slaughter.
Celestial.

I watched him.
Sometimes, I watched him.
His hands, grasping.
Grasping the hair of the lithic, stone cold face.
A face that has survived thousands of years,
Yet, is celibate of emotions.
Like the faces.
Such familiar faces.
Those, recognisable, obdurate faces.
The masquerades os masked beings.
Nothing but sordid liars.

In a time where hypnotism is commonplace.
Such corrupt thaumaturgy.
Undeniable.

The boy.
Untouched.
Innocent.
A figurine, placed on a high shelf.
A figurine of such a virtuous angel,
Virginal of the moral tenebrosity,
Monogamous,
Married not to a mortal,
But only to the skies.

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