effer.

empty promises abound. decades of thankless favours and chores. seven thousand three hundred cans and eight thousand three hundred and ninety-five despairing nights later, you'd think resolution was at hand. clucking bell.

the slingshot constantly reloaded, but the aims are vain. golems don't flinch at pebbles, silly.

the pursuant lets his arms fall to his side as the golem lumbers on. surely one has better things to do with one's life than to fight a lost battle with no moral implications. surely one is not obliged to put aside one's happiness indefinitely for another that rarely, if ever, recognises what his keeper has done for him. surely one has suffered enough in two decades to put one's foot down and move on.

if only you'd make good on your promise and take your selfish soul (or lack thereof) far, far away. fuck you very much.