It’s a unique form of punishment. A trunk that can only be closed by the elephant that lives not but a four inch veer to the left; except, the punishment is the outcome of a game that everyone is partaking in, even the victim… Why, oh, why would the victim encourage inevitable recoil? The elephant is exhausted. Nightmares and constant reminders line its veins; they make up the very plaque and the very sadistic pleasure of its existence.
The victim has no voice, but relentlessly screams. Few can hear the scream because few listen with anything but their ears: such a sad world we live in. The game continues, pausing only whenpastures that haven’t been raped by every farmer who has a seed to plant, that haven’t been reaped by every farmer who has a hunger for a fresh crop presents itself. It is in this solace that the victim can rest; it’s difficult to smile, to laugh, to accept, to devote, to pretend even for an instant because the victim sees. The victim knows what the participants may not yet realize, or rather, what they do realize and what they do actualize. The elephant must not perish for the trunk will continue to fill and the screams will continue to be silent, at least, until those who can run without legs and those who can invent without hope can reach him.
"Smile. It’s a privilege, after all; it’s why you’re here."