Why do I wear my heart on my sleeve for daws to peck at, you ask? Well, there’s no room in my chest, for there is the crows’ nest. To feed the young ones, how about nerves and and the occasional tendon? My eyes are so glassy, they’d be a window to – yes, what? A soul, there is not! – were it not for the tears which give them a mirror-like finish. So the daws may peck away at the heart. When it is gone, the image of their self will still haunt them in my glassy eyes, beaks all red and bloody. What once gave them life now lifeless. And yet, I was useful. At least in my death.

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