I run screaming down the twisting halls, why are all the angles wrong and what is this that chases me? I don’t know. All I know is the beating of my heart, it pounds, pounds, pounds, beating an impossoible rythm against my ribs. I clutch my chest worried that it might free itself from it’s fleshy prison
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Author: Jonathon
Would rather be out swimming, running, or camping. Works in state government. Spent a youth reading genre-fiction; today, he is making up for it by reading large quantities of non-fiction literature. The fact that truth, in every way, is more fascinating than fiction still tickles him.
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