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It is not for the sleeping to be having.

Feelin' a little sick. Not entirely sure what's happening here, but it's not pretty by any means. Brainy brain tosses and turns like a salad next in line for the throne of Rome, croutons of thought left spicy and unrefined, a dagger in the heart of taste.

I should sleep, perchance dream silly dreams of frolicking all mimsy among the borogroves, spring in the air and the inflated sense of fishbelly-white skin, exposed and naked where no skin has gone for many moons. Tender flesh, waiting to be tasted and sullied with dubious joy and panther-soft fur, strong and sleek, dark as the night.

I am Widdershins, come to take my reprisal from among you. Choose carefully, for there is no turning back, no apology, no soothing sounds to cuckold you off to sleep. It is but bare raw need, gurgling through you inbred like a bank in water up to its knees.

I salivate with your pretense. Largely.

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