Captcha: archbishop flabrus


Her face haunts my waking dreams. I see it in the shadowed places where my imagination can run wild and unchained. Glassy, moving unnaturally, like an animatronic figurine. Despite that, it loses none of it's charm.

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. Dampness makes the smoke cling to you the way that sound makes the unspoken words cling to my thoughts.

I wish that it wouldn't.

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