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drabble

Behind closed eyes, instead of opening the door to sleep, the darkness summoned other senses to life.

The rush of his own blood in his ears, like his own personal ocean, and with it the memory of hungry ghosts sinking their fangs into his neck to drain him dry. The grave-like silence as his heart skipped a beat before the power that slept within him had awoken to extract its vengeance on their damned souls. The whispering wind in the branches overhead--and the blanket of leaves on the forest floor beneath him--spoke in tongues of fallen angels. Calling him to dance. To play.

The sound of his own voice as his inner child joined the little goddess of destruction in her chant of doom.

Play with me.

3 [voice]

Hey, cookie! C'mere--I wanna hurt something.

02

Hot water. Soap. I cant decide if it's a cruel, sweet dream, or a nightmare.

If I never see another oil filter...

01 [voice]

So tell me: Is it still considered stealing to confiscate things from a highway robber? Filthy bandits are a pain in my ass--but I suppose if it weren't for them I would be out of a job. So tell me: where can a guy get a bite to eat around here? I'm starved.
 

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sore ga kibou

As you push it up through the soil, I will shake your filthy hand.
You may be dead to me, but that don't mean we can't be friends.

* * *

Give me your poison pills,
cause I'm digging my star-
crossed grave tonight.
No longer living a lie.

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