His hands resting on the arms of the chair, the fingers of one hand curled, one foot pushed forward slightly, a figure of wisdom, quiescent and emanating a solidity, strength and resolve. Abraham Lincoln’s head is missing. In restoring him I can restore a little of what he stands for. I will do this and the other things too. Every little act brings light to the dark places.
Harold, 200 years old, begs to be released from his prison. Keeping him alive could benefit many but sometimes the needs of the one really do outweigh the needs of the many. This tree of life must be set free and I stop his weary old heart and emancipate his old soul. Button Gwinnett doesn’t have a heart or a soul but he has his duty. You didn’t really sign the Declaration of Independance, Button and this isn’t 1776. Some might think that the powdered wig adorning your shiny metal head looks comical but not to me. I’ll take care of the tattered old scroll and you can rest now. You served your country well. The mechanical man shuts himself down freed from his duty.
As I free slaves, slay their oppressors, ferry women and children to safety and organise a wedding, from my radio comes the strains of a violin. Agatha is playing her song. I freed her Stradivarius and now she frees us all. The old woman stands, playing out the last tune of our sad lost souls, in a burnt out shack in the decrepit shameful ruins of the Wastelands. The waste.
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