Making the world a little stranger
Only foolish little children sleep soundly on Christmas Eve.
Trapped within his own skin.
We all lose something precious to us.
A neck that can fit many fingers.
The great beast falling up.
Scrub your soul pure. Harshly. Blood is a mark of your fleshy impurity.
From the world of Otherlings & Elsewheres - A story of spiders and spinners