Zutara-for-the-win

Enclosed in the monument to my own demise, I wait huddled in the dark. Trapped. Alone. Choking. I despise this place and yet, it is all I know. I am but a goldfish to the dancing, dulling eyes of those passing by, so concerned and uncaring it makes me sick. They deem to care behind sociatal expectancies. They force themselves in unbidden. Through the haze and fog, the painted glass, past the ligaments and bone and glaring red until they find me. And then they stop. Their gaze destroys me. Blank, they are empty voids of pitiless sympathy, so uncaring in their attentiveness that each face is but a mould of porcelain; smooth, unshapen and rif