I weigh an assortment of spheres on my merchant's scales. All the golden balls have a density of sibilance. They sound of unbalanced glass rolling around my trays.
I hand them back to the addled pawnbrokers without fanfare. I don't have the heart to explain the worthlessness of their orbs.
I refuse to change the masses to better accommodate their values. I decline to shift the fulcrum to alter my criteria.
I recommend they sell their wares to another vendor. I cannot use their self-sacrifice. I know there are many other people who can. They ply the sordid trade of artificial substitution. Of absolution of accountability.
11:23 p.m. - 2014-06-05
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