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the mindless ravels of a little used conscienceso I had set down by the riversidecasting röks into its greenish depthswhen upon me came a plump young fellowwhose hair was gold as midday sunhe asked what the rocks meantI told him twas only for funa bird beat upon the water with its trovelling wingsand he said, well I had best be offeringa deal to you so great you had only abideby the writing signed upon the tideuntil fog rose up against the moorand the long black shadows cast out from me the man to whom I had inquiredwhen a wight bessechingly spokeits ghastly murmerimmediately I turned to runbut felt that my legs were cold as icehe struck upon me many a time with his bloody daggeruntil I was no morewhich is why I tell this storyto warn all those who go out in the fog of daybut then again, maybe the travel was worth the riskor it might not have beensince death is cold and reeling (to quote hendrix)
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