We are warring. Armed with only our inclinations, you wear your reason like a bulletproof vest. And while the emotion I carry is linked to reason of my own, I hold feelings, like giant red balloons. When everything but my callused hands are camouflaged the balloons float above the weight on my shoulders, like an unwanted birthday party. You never want birthday parties. I always want balloons. But right now, I understand why you reject things that pop and float and blow covers. You are a better shot than I. You aim just below the red balloons. Get me every time.
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