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Street Puppeteer Beyond the blur of busy legs and the coins that pass by the puppeteer sleeps.

At his feet, a bemused motley crew: contorted, on standby deadpan in wood. Emily holds his heart above all the others with her faraway eyes, and double-jointed arms and the words that her lips will never quite form. She's older now and brittle but then so is he. With each passing year, ever harder to deny how their features have grown uncannily alike. Sometimes when she dances under curtain call skies, in the solitary dusk, they quarrel, too.