It’s a mournful bat-filled place keeping a horse-drawn pace. Remembering the good old days, when wars still were fought in the open, with artillery, not poverty. Caverns and unstable bridges, under an eerie moon drowning in ominous colored fright, the dark depressing night. the solemn castle telling about unsound riches gathered on the poor peasant’ …

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You, old and experienced, little belittling me. Talking loud, foolish self-important dribble. Just zip it and make me feel like a Goddess. I confess, I am tired indulging you wearing this skimpy dress, your breath smelling yellow, does it hurt to wipe the cigarette stain, under your parchment wrinkled nose. I am no who-se, Not …

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