I searched her eyes, looking for a spark, and realizing there was none I turned away. My hands rubbed the sides of my jeans, the material was well worn in, but old habits die slowly. My right index finger caught itself on the hole on the seam by the hips. There you go, truth in obscenity. I turned back to her. The brown eyes were still blank. Where do these comments of hers come from? Behind her the walls were drab and dark. I searched the corners. A puppet sat in the corner. His mouth was moving.
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