The flies were a nuisance but no more so than the prim little cherubim; the little voices of conscience sent to plague us. God's mini tax inspectors keeping track of what is given and taken. The spare room held so many casualties of my war. So many stinking corpses I love too much to bury. So many shining hearts that now stain my clean floors with their decomposing compositions. As their grip loosens, I hold on a little bit tighter.
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