Their faces press up against the glass, a twisted mess of features. They tap and torment, laughing when I protest. The tank is small, too small. I want to walk, to run, to be free. People in smart uniform point at my and talk in a strange language. They don't understand. I am not a plaything. I am alive, like them, a creature to be respected. Not to be prodded and poked. I need air, I need my home. My real home.
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@Bluegerbil
I'm clumsy, clueless, insanely shy and generally a lunatic.
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