where the writers are
Broken

It had to be got rid of. Tough. It was tough. I’d need something hard. To break it. Or something sharp to break it open. I kept it atop a shelf. I thought about it. Did nothing. Days passed by. Months. Years. Yesterday. I brought it down. Dust. All I saw was dust. Not tough. Not unbreakable. I’d wait for the dust to loosen. Days would pass. Months. Years. I put it in a bag and placed it on some of the other things I had found. I was scavenging for more, wiping sweat, peeping through webs. And then I heard a sound. It had fallen. The glass broke. It took years of doing nothing to get rid of nothing.

Dust washed my hands.