The puppet master sits in his chair. Forever he converses with his puppets. The puppets care for him. He loves them, more than he loves them. Which may not make sense to us. But it does to the puppet master. As the strings tug on his arms and back, the puppets laugh at him. He laughs nervously back at them trying to please them. The puppets whisper into his ear “It’s that time of day”. The puppets them proceed to frantically crawl around the doorless room. The strings drag the puppet master behind them. The puppet master does not struggle, for it would displease the puppets. Instead he remains limp, and he lets the floor nails dig into his back. The puppets let him back into his chair, and the cuts and holes in his skin close up. The puppets then proceed to crawl inside the puppet master. The puppet master sighs. He falls asleep. And then the process repeats the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day. Forever
-Brandon johnson
