Mood: You're being haunted by a ghost, but the ghost is history, capitalism, and/or your own sins.
Mood: You don't remember writing the story that populates the neatly stacked pages on your desk. In your Remington typewriter, a blank page is ready to receive more text.
Mood: Outside your window, the wind howls. The streetlight has been out for months and it's a new moon. This is what we mean when we talk about darkness.
Mood: Calmly, you back away from the body before you, with its familiar and unfamiliar face. The blood that pools around its head is thick and still-warm. But you turn away from it: there's no way you're actually dead.
Mood: You've always been prone to late-night walks. The cool air on your face, the quiet stillness of a calm autumn evening. Tonight, though, something is different. The breeze that whistles through the trees makes the leaves rattle like a dying breath and though you don't see anyone, you can feel their eyes upon you.
Mood: Before you appears a knife, real or imagined. You've been wronged for the last time. It's Fortunato's turn to be walled in; hell is empty and all the devils are inside your vengeful heart.
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