As the river of sun’s blood pours over the grains of hunk-rice, the rice that makes us handsome, I lay there sleeping, writing this journal with the torpidscraller, retrieved from the Axol tempest in last year’s adventure. Torpid though i lay, supine in my attitude, I clearly envisaged a dark eye, blinking in a swiling void of lightless horror. That eye. What could it mean?
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