You are less than a shadow, at least a shadow follows something real. You are the stain left behind when even shadows come to piss and move on.

You claim to be thunder without lightning? You are the wet fart of a dying donkey. A wave without a sea? You are the scum floating on a puddle that even dogs refuse to drink from. An echo looking for a wall? You are the silence after a fool's belch—brief, unnoticed, and forgotten before it ends.

If you were ♥♥♥♥, flies would starve rather than touch you. If you were a tumor, the plague-ridden rat hosting you would chew its own guts out for relief.

Even maggots turn up their noses at your corpse. You are the reason silence learned to scream.

Now crawl back to whatever sewer spat you out and choke on the filth that made you.

Your name is written in piss and even the dogs have walked away.

⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜
🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈
⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜
⬜⬜🌈🌈⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜
⬜🌈⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜🌈⬜⬜⬜🌈
🌈⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜🌈⬜⬜🌈⬜🌈⬜
🌈⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜🌈⬜🌈⬜⬜🌈⬜⬜
🌈⬜⬜🌈🌈⬜⬜🌈⬜🌈⬜⬜🌈⬜⬜
🌈⬜⬜⬜🌈⬜🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈⬜🌈⬜⬜
⬜🌈🌈🌈🌈⬜🌈⬜⬜⬜🌈⬜🌈⬜⬜
⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜
⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜
⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜
🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈
⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜

⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢏⣴⣿⡆⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢣⣾⣿⣿⡇⣽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⡏⣼⣿⣶⣌⡙⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⢟⣵⡿⢿⣿⣿⡇⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⡃⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣆⢮⣭⣭⣭⣭⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣮⣕⣙⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣷⡙⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⣿⣦⡹⣿⣿⣿
⣿⢋⠸⣿⣿⡿⢏⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⢁⣶⣿⣿⣷⢸⣿⣿
⡇⣿⣿⣶⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣴⣶⣤⣬⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢸⣿⣿
⡇⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠙⠋⣿⣿⣿⢃⣾⣿⣿
⣷⣹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠃⠈⡹⠈⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣋⣭⣭⣤⣤⣤⣤⣶⣿⣿⡿⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿

🚉👩‍👦

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦

a joy to play with