by Robert Gryfft
I took to warming the silence of my existence by finding and selling shards of souls.
"Sub-par, I'm afraid," murmurs the soulgatherer. He flips through shard after shard, until he finds one with a peculiar glow. A smile hovers on his lips, and his short body positively trembles.
"Eminently satisfactory... Yes. This will do nicely."
Monday, February 4, 2008
Rhymes With Fallin'
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