Sifting through these shadows, he’s wasting precious
seconds, picking up the pieces, the limits—almost endless. Staring through a
pinhole, it slowly carves a notch, in anticipation, through the looking glass’
watch. The sweat slips off the bone. The wooden spokes surrender to the
tension. The strings begin to part. And then the sudden pause to ease
suspension. The gun delivers bullets, insisting its demise. The menace sheds
its skin, revealing its disguise. He crumbles to his knees, and together
realized. The thing that he had killed was the conscience in his mind.
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