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There were six of them, resting softly on the dark barked tree in my garden, only six. There used to be more, but now there are only six. Why six? I didn't think it mattered at the time, but that is where I faulter, and it fills my heart with pity, that chemical imbalance, whenever I remember how ignorant I was.
When there used to be thousands, I'd be happy, and they'd sing to me often with wide gazes, and slow smiles, but they'd never sing anything remotely 'happy.' This is why I used to wake up at night screaming, although their voices always put my conscious mind at rest. They sung of misfortune, death, famine and other such nonsense, but calmly, like it was alright with them.
Each noon of every day I'd quietly sit with them by the tree in my garden. They were modest, yet had purpose, and their eyes seemed to tell of many stories from many lands in different times, and sometimes I'd see those times in sadness. A large proportion of the time, however, was spent singing with them, as they'd always sing one of three strange songs. Imagine an MP3 player, but with only three songs which you love, and never grow out of. In a way, it was a curse.
They wouldn't appreciate me smoking and their singing would be filled with modest coughing, but they never got angry. I suppose that's why I quit, because they didn't want me when I smoked. I needed them to want me, it was an addiction, largely psychological in my opinion.
Their bodies were rough, and heads mishapen to what you'd want them to be in relation to their torso and thin, crispy legs, and their smile was much that of a human. A baby, one that finds amusement in the smallest of actions. Their humour was dry, and they would never smile at my attempts to entertain them, however they needed not any of mine, and were completely content in giving me their sensory songs. Overall, their quiet bodies seemed oddly apathetic, but their smiles on their faces did not obey by the same stature; they seemed to cry out a happiness I had never before seen, even though they could easily fit onto the desperate palm of my aging hands. How could such a small being evoke so much emotion?
This is what I love, it is an unconditional alien, and only I have the sheer pleasure of hearing them sing. But their numbers dwindled as soon as anybody came over; any friend, lover, distant-relative who found me on the Internet... they seemed so sad when I had company. So I was sad. This is my love, and nobody shall touch these remaining six, I will never leave. I am alone, and nobody shall touch them.