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The cool moon, resolute and unwavering in its course, leaked down colorblind and faded through the inky haze of the thick summer night. It dripped jaded and disillusioned down the sore and rusty pipe of Abel's pupil. Sore from the years of prodding, rusty from the ages of supping his lifeforce. And now he was little more than the man on the moon, the very symbol of constancy in his dreary, gray, and sunken life; the patch over the throbbing red chasm of his right eye socket blinded his ego and strength, and his left eye, growing ever foggier, could only bear the unjustice comitted against his withering and grainy flesh.
He was gripped by an intense insomnia, perpetuated by the crystal gaze of the moon, never to forget the atrocities enacted beneath its trickling light. He watched over his comrades, his compatriots, his confederates as they slumbered. A deathly old grandfather, and nothing more, he continued on tired and weary for the benefit of his war-scarred sons. He could feel deep in the boiling pit of his gut that men would have their day again. |
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