You stalk through the snow-covered garden back the way you came, unwilling to chase someone who almost certainly does not want to be found.
But you can't go back into the house without answers. Eyes-of-Clay awaits answers that can save him, and I bet you'd like answers, too, wouldn't you?
Who said that? Who thought that? Your head swims.
Don't you know who you are? Where you begin and end? Perhaps you don't have my clarity of will. At least not yet. Sitting on a crumbling brick wall is a little gray house cat. That's right, here I am. Well, here is a body. A bit scrawny. Sick, I fear—one last moment of glory before the end.
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