(He looks down at his heel, at the crushed flowers beneath his foot and at the flowers around him that now seem to go silent as if sensing his thoughts. He's considering it.)
If we plucked them, they would die slowly. (Withering up bit by bit each day until they die pitiful and ugly. And would they keep talking after being plucked?) It would be boring.
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(He looks down at his heel, at the crushed flowers beneath his foot and at the flowers around him that now seem to go silent as if sensing his thoughts. He's considering it.)
If we plucked them, they would die slowly. (Withering up bit by bit each day until they die pitiful and ugly. And would they keep talking after being plucked?) It would be boring.
Unless you have someone you want to gift.
(That would be exciting.)