Author's Note: This is a bit from a stalled writing project of mine. It may get finished at some point - and, again, it may not.
The children play at being real boys, in the cluttered cavern of the blind.
In the dim light of the nursery, the Johhnys hustle through empty corridors, and the glass jars of infants glitter in the cold and sterile lighting. The infants slumber in amniotic dreams, decebriated, brains untangled into a gray halo through the fluid surrounding them. They twitch, now and again, synaptic puppetry jerking frozen muscles.
Twenty by twenty by twenty the jars are arranged. Snaking bundles of tubes and wires run to and fro across the floor, blooming into strange flowers that tangle with meat and muscle inside the gently exploded craniums.
There is a clock, somewhere, and its faint metronome is the only sound; save a faint rasp, now and again, as a jar is shuttled off somewhere, or a new one arrives. Occasionally a baby wakes, or cries out in it's sleep, but its lungs are full of fluid and no sound escapes. I stand in the corner, watching them, for the longest time.
Long enough, I think.
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