statuesquely draconian

“we’re living in the dying age,” she whispered. golden eyes seemed to have cracks inside. “i can’t love; i don’t love anything, not even myself.”

we walked down the red hallway, hand-in-hand. the floor was lined with velvet. there were antlers growing through the walls. an ancient photograph depicted a skull with a crown of thorns and a rose between its teeth.

a dead frog sat to my left while to my right, in a cool blue pool, floated a gorgeous nude woman. luxuriant hair fell down her shoulders. “these are the things dreams are made of,” spoke the frog. slime spilled out of his mouth.

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