Wednesday, December 29, 2010

G. Reem.

Daemon raised the polka pace.

Old man Earl quivered involuntarily, fighting hard against the last stronghold in his life-long, ingrained consciousness of lofty pretence. The spasm lasted but a moment. Letting the floodgates surge, a diluted pupil pressed wildly through the steamed monocle, straining to catch the sprite in action.

"If you look very closely," the daemon whispered into the paralysing soundlessness that follows the premature termination of drawn breath, "you'll see that it hits the spot."

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