The shoemaker never makes his own shoes, and walks around the house in his bare feet. But even if he walks on ice, he’s the kind of person that won’t regret his own death, and so sleep fills the shoes he makes and will never wear.
The wealth he makes is not his own, but he uses it anyway, and only chooses to end this lifestyle when he’s tired of doing nothing.
Her pockets are heavy with gold, but her body still contains the same memories. Even if three days turn into seven years, behaviours and habits become so ingrained that she doesn’t know whether she can blame herself for what she does.
She picks up a broom, and starts sweeping the corners of the house again, just because she can but won’t forget.
The water rolling within the confines of an eggshell is more fragile than a laugh, but when either one breaks out, the overflow of one is much more pleasant than the other.