The Hand

I bite the hand that feeds me, so that mabye itโ€™ll let me starve. But it doesnโ€™t, no matter what I do, bite, kick, scream, yell, it always comes back.


So today I donโ€™t bite.


The hand hesitates, waiting for me to do something, anything, but I donโ€™t. And slowly the hand approaches me.

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