A mosquito landed on the 2nd Regiment of the Royal Guard in battle with the Legion Nostradominitus, a vigilante group sworn to protect the virginity of Satan. It began to find parts of skin that were exposed to the shredded spectrum of daylight in the growing dim of agony. It found many spots to snack. Timmy, a red-haired chap from Devon was bit; and then Steven from Liverpool, on his calloused thumb. The Nostradominiti charged forth, encouraged by the sapping of blood from their enemy.
People always try to fall asleep when a story starts, and I am not any different. I don’t think details such as “the middle of the week” and “the middle of the day” repudiate my being so much like everyone else—I was simply not ready from the moment I digested breakfast to do anything other than lay down and try to dissolve myself between the sheets, the mattress, and a few images I’d’ve sold off in a few mid-grade novels if just to get them “away from here”. I say story and what I mean is time, or whatever bakes us together into specific
Why does this exist? Really haunting: I saw some kids playing with this today, showing off for their parents.
A couple minutes after I closed my eyes last night, hours before I fell asleep, I was given the chance to find, among a crowd of people, the “woman of my dreams” (as long as we agree this is only a phrase of speech). This parenthetical is necessary because the whole riddle of this daydream centered around the inability to manifest desire in form.
The preacher told them all these things: “You should not outlast your own image, for in it you are bound to the fumes of disinterment. You should not forget to bless your comfort, for it places you among the sheaves of hundreds upon thousands of your closest friends. You should wait there, right where you are, alongside me, until together we can hold hands without the sweat of cowardice