-- the girl in the box - iHer box was a carefully controlled environment.She'd never felt the grass in her skin, and she had never felt or tasted snow. The river waters rushed and bubbled, but she'd never touched it, never drank it, never felt the caress of scales as the fish summoned swarmed around her.Her world was carefully controlled. It was never too hot (and when it was, the cool breeze of the fans would slipstream in her veins), it was never too cold (and when it was, there would be blankets and coats and jackets until she sweated and bowed under their weight); it was never too light (and how she loved the sunlight playing patterns in her face), it was neve
-- sunday morningEvery morning he looks out the window.Today it's gray: the sun is bright but there are clouds, and that particular concrete shade he has come to accept as the norm. Even sunrises (which he sometimes watches, looking out of the window, when he's sleepless) and sunsets (which he always watches, blankly, from that very same window) are strange: the red is inflamed like a wound, and its oranges blue-pinks.So he watches the window, the reflection of his face in it: the days are an endless flow of boredom, one day melting into another day and into another, colors and hours running together and bleeding into each other. It isn't quite like
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