I can be mother, too! he offered, thinking of cameos and not the tedium of tending.
But I can weave! He insisted, stomping the last of the grass.
What about fire? I can make it! But there was no wood.
A sacrament, then, anything but penance!
Purification sounded lofty, so long as the means was anything but silence.
A song! ––His chest swelled to the imaginary chorus. But she had given those already, to deaf ears.
I will dance you to the moon! But her feet were bruised from carrying his weight.
He claimed to want a friend, some unifying vision. At last he arrived, the ever-faithful witness to the glory of his own reflection, and its deep pools went on and on.