I hear a silver laugh in the pale moonlight. It sings to me of quicksilver emotions, and of quicksand promises.
It asks me if I could desecrate the temple which I built with my own hands. It asks me if I could defile my idol even if it had feet of clay. I had long worshipped at the altar in silent awe, but my bared heart got a hollow reply, a cacophony of broken dreams.
I had but a small wish, like the child who sought the moon. And now on the sands so white, I see writ a single word. And the waves roar along: "Loser..."
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