Captcha: archbishop flabrus


Her face haunts my waking dreams. I see it in the shadowed places where the imagination can run wild and unchained. It appears, glassy, moving unnaturally, like an animatronic figurine. Despite that, it loses none of it's charm, nor does it become more or less false. The forced smiles still send a blush to my face, and I yearn to reach out to it.

I can hear her voice in my head, though I've never heard it with my ears. It is thick and saccharin sweet like fruit leather. It sounds like heavy dew on the morning grass, and it feels to my brain-ears like a drag from a cigarette on that morning. The unspoken words cling to my thoughts as the morning dampness makes the smoke cling to your clothes, or how a wet t-shirt clings to a figure.

The figure is gone, if it ever really existed, but I still see it. The voice was never there, but I can still hear it.

I wish that I couldn't.

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