the stolen

His eyes follow a mosquito,idly lighting upon and sucking the blood from him.He regards this as someone outside himself,from a distance.The dull sting and itch is already fading,and he knows the insect will simply feed from him until it fucking pops,and he smiles at the pointlessness of both of their situations.He envies the mosquito. “Who am I ,”he murmurs to himself,”What have I done with my life, my time?”Self loathing fills him as he thumbs on the scratched,worn starlight scope and sights in on a distant,hazy figure on the far horizon

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