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The Moon's Soufflé Rises Over Chichester

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I think their souls are driving me mad. Perhaps, it's too much chicory and eggshells. With embryos. Once a connoisseur of the Muskegon trout, imported from the colonies. Now I dabble in the black arts. Chewing my fingernails and waiting for my muse to entertain me. "Is it me, or am I off kilter?"
A bookshop monger by day. With fair prices, and tea for my ladies of refined gentrification. By night, a scoundrel with a fetish for the powdered coifs, who attend operatic sundown. Listening to the likes of Enrico Caruso. "It's my table salt for a night on the town."

The hand in the dark, reaching from the basket of the night. Like the social chameleon, I am. Bringing you truffles as I touch your breath. Inhaling your soul, in death's twilight. As the moon's soufflé rises over Chichester.

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