The stone that encases her being does not weigh her down: it protects her from a world of foolish thought. She often bangs her head against it, bruising her temples as she watches the soft curves of people’s minds being moulded without their knowing.

Despite her hardened surrounding, the sadness and disappointment that leaks from illogical thought grow like moss on her edges: trying to erode its way in. She scratches at it with her hindsight, questions it with her rationality and flicks it away without mercy.

Her encasing was not impenetrable; it was curious and therefore questioned those that wished to lean against it.

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