People like to give him things.

Maybe there’s something about him that still screams of an empty space to be filled. His masks slip, and children offer up their beloved toys, grandmothers (dying alone) their heirlooms, young girls their first and last kisses and cheap plastic-beaded bracelets. As if those knicks and knacks, which mean nothing to him except that they meant everything to them, will complete him.

Tsuzuki used to keep them all. Until he looked at the dusty mess and realized that he couldn’t remember who’d given him this, or that, or that. Or any of it.

***End
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