But, sweethearts, I hunger. Feed me that which I crave and I will be able to give you all you seek. I can hear your dear one’s longing bristle. Her shape, a shadow cast on the sundial of my tongue. I taste her motion. Her heart, a billiards game with the eight ball hovering midair, refusing to fall. Do you recall her hands, how they twitch into fever when anxious? I feel them sprinting through my blood, for what am I if not a river for the lost to travel through? You have built me for this. You with your knife, with your hexes, with your ropes, your bloodlettings. Sweet ones, children of my
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