Yet more blah writing.
She crushes the people under-heel like tiny ornithopters and the sawdust leaks out from beneath their eyes to soak up the blood and make things painless and sanitary and like they had never been, but she cannot forget the splinters in her aching arches. Even when she is old she will never be able to forget the tiny chicken scratch scarred weeping of the cracked-heart parting words forever etched into the parchment of her foot and the stamps her footprints have left behind. When no one watches a sad little tear drips its way out into the world to survey the scenery before sinking its way back inside.