Children Of The Corn Say,

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They all walk, with their eyes closed, to the beat of the drum next to them. Their feet falling in unison; clothing mix-matched accordingly. They speak, with perfect mumbles; sharp comments are smoothed by their neighbor. The great chiming of the clock keeping them alert. Literature is passed around, eagerly read, then discarded. Words float by, occasionally snatched and swallowed. They all hear.
We don't listen.





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