From beneath the bed, from closets bursting, from frightful Grimm visions come drifting those demons of darkness who haunt and taunt. “We know you,” say these sores of the soul. “It is we who are your marrow, we who are your blood, we who tell your tales.” They seem to glide inexorably toward me, but as my emptied chest strains, I realize that it is me making the approach, me whispering: “May I have this dance?"
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