Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or upon awed watches in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. Such
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hop hop hop, little rabbits in heat
don't want it. don't want them here. don't want to see or smell or taste or know or think or...
stick your head under the sand and wait out the storm.
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Distressed little maelstrom.
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if i'm a distressed maelstrom, wonder what that makes you?
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What does it make me, River?
You knew me so well once upon a time so you though, do you think now?
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