It doesn't matter if the white-collared one, with his obvious transparency and feeble attempt on portraying an easy life, rolled up his sleeves to play. It doesn't matter if the teenager—maybe even less—wearing sneakers of presumably high value is high up in space, with the stillness of her smile betraying realism as she is restricted of ground for eternity. It doesn't matter if the youngest of them is fixated, hypnotized by a suspended sphere without even a speckle of disbelief in his eyes.
I wonder if they wanted to be that way. Strictly immobile.
I wonder, but it still doesn't matter because I know—and I am very proud to say—that the Pied Piper of Hamelin, this time, failed.
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