XX.

A little people. A little face. The pretty toys line up all for her. Down the rows, barely up to her nose, she strolls slowly in wonderment, wide-eyed awe. Her lashes so sweet, blinking quickly, not to miss a thing. The packages make most of those inaccessible. She was afraid to open them. That was simply not done.

 

        Namesakes and petty traditions, she was a bounty to receive, trips up, not forgotten, mannequin, hollow non-persons who stared at you in dumb poses, painted eyeballs, nails. Little girl ones so nice. Drops pin, no no. Not permitted. Pick up a penny, found on the ground; no no. That's how diseases are spread. Shut up and down no more. Stop.

 

        Racks too big, or was it much too big. She was asked, but no replies were offered, mandate a ticket, stamp it on her head.

 

        Faults, faults, Little babies cry. Pursuing something but hampers get in the way. Notice little babies don't laugh. They don't know the meaning of the word. Power tools scare her, yell at the little thing, yell at her. Power tools torture, and freezing water, over, in the hopes it will freeze over also. Drill, into her chubby baby cheeks.

RIVER BED   70

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