The children that play in the park don't mind the mess. They continue to swing and jump and chase each other until their little bodies are numb from joy; all the while the bodies begin to pile up across the field, cluttering the bushes and gradually creating a dam over the stream the children often play in during lazy summer afternoons.
The children that play in the park still don't mind this mess. Their little feet dart between splayed and bloated arms, hopscotching with the dead as if they were little more than the stepping stones across the nearby pond that was slowly running dry. They still went through the motions of playing in the stream as if the water was still there.
The children that play in the park don't mind the growing mess at all. In fact they adjust to it so quickly that the smell of decay becomes a comforting aroma and the buzzing of flies their own personal orchestra. They don't care where the bodies are coming from or why there are so many, they only know that the park is where children play and they are children. Therefore they must play.
The children that play in the park love the mess. As the dead come to cover every inch of the ground the children find new ways to play on top of them, creating new toys from old bodies in the innocent way that children these days are in the habit of doing. Imaginary tea parties have never had to many guests as now, with the children sitting as many corpses upright as they can, creating furniture from the ones with rigormortis too.
The children in the part don't mind the mess. After all, they made it in the first place.
The children that play in the park still don't mind this mess. Their little feet dart between splayed and bloated arms, hopscotching with the dead as if they were little more than the stepping stones across the nearby pond that was slowly running dry. They still went through the motions of playing in the stream as if the water was still there.
The children that play in the park don't mind the growing mess at all. In fact they adjust to it so quickly that the smell of decay becomes a comforting aroma and the buzzing of flies their own personal orchestra. They don't care where the bodies are coming from or why there are so many, they only know that the park is where children play and they are children. Therefore they must play.
The children that play in the park love the mess. As the dead come to cover every inch of the ground the children find new ways to play on top of them, creating new toys from old bodies in the innocent way that children these days are in the habit of doing. Imaginary tea parties have never had to many guests as now, with the children sitting as many corpses upright as they can, creating furniture from the ones with rigormortis too.
The children in the part don't mind the mess. After all, they made it in the first place.
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