I know there is a woman in my memory, a Madonna. Sacred mother of a miraculous baby. A child grows, makes his small meaningless decisions. Makes her smile sadly, as if asking "Must you hurt me so?" I know. - There is a Father. One who tells everything you need to hear, a warm, yet forceful figure, firmly guiding hand. The fabric of my reality.
My mother's eyes, my father's hands.
You're living inside a myth. You're living in a mythical world. It's when we meet a child of the Unknown when we must battle. Does the fabric tear apart? Oh mother and father, have you ever lost a baby to the great darkness?
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