I was having a conversation with a friend about whether or not he read something I was working on in which he replied by saying he didn't. Me being the over dramatic man that I am, jokingly stated that maybe I should just quit writing. His response was as followed:
"Day 459: I have finally broken his spirit"
This inspired me to write this:
I watched at a distance as he tore the pages out of the very book I saw him hold so close to his side when I first met him. The once sacred hardback that was filled with "precious snippets of his soul" was laying on the floor like a hollowed out carcass. The spine left naked and exposed save for a few remaining shreds of paper that writhed in the wind. Images of vultures flocking to the aftermath only to sniff the remains and retreat in disgust resulted in a smile to blossom upon my face.
"Day 459: I have finally broken his spirit"
This inspired me to write this:
I watched at a distance as he tore the pages out of the very book I saw him hold so close to his side when I first met him. The once sacred hardback that was filled with "precious snippets of his soul" was laying on the floor like a hollowed out carcass. The spine left naked and exposed save for a few remaining shreds of paper that writhed in the wind. Images of vultures flocking to the aftermath only to sniff the remains and retreat in disgust resulted in a smile to blossom upon my face.
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