He sat on the aisle seat, and stared towards the altar, he bit his thumb, growling, dragging the newly moulting skin off him, in one piece, with his pointing green teeth. He wept to discover a prayer book, delicately placed on the pew shelf, because the book, the object as it was, was happier than he was, some woman had loved it, and left it letters. He drew back at the arrival of a group bored, or people, because the people were stupid and he wanted to tell them so. He growled at them, he was here on a good reason, he wanted to discuss that reason privately. What were these silly people doing here? Forgetting to wash their hands, and standing all over the floor, in their dirty street shoes. It was his last chance, but he wasn't handling it at all. Why should they have kicked up a such dirty storm in this place, and somehow, leave happily, without nasty consequences of having blindly desecrated the show here, and hurt him, brought on with the silent theatre of freedom, and, their dirt boots stood all over the altar, making loud shows of delight, the sound of metal scratching with sharp noises against expensive special things, that can feel it, he can feel it, the narrow cuts biting into his skin, making huge, thick burning wounds, turning the blood, shrieking the catch illness into him, a plague up, in burnt and salted flesh, they got hurt for doing a good thing. I don't dare do a good thing, the attention would make me most upset.
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