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The figure that creaked.

I did not dream of a centipede moon, I did not cry any tears into the Thames for you.

The mirror that exists exactly where it always has has moved. Behind him, long silver fox, exists a twisted figure. Their hair stiff and long. It’s trying to point something out. Trying to communicate with you/us/them. The bent to the side body begins to straighten. Its slow awkward movement takes control of its surroundings. Creaking and clunking as if stuck in a pipe. The throb of heat running through its stiffened veins.

The box is wooden and man made. I have been walking through forests collecting branches of different ages and different woods. Each branch is as straight as I could lay my hands upon.

Line them up ready to use. The man made box has an orifice. Through this opening a branch is inserted and exits though the other side. I hear this branch will twist. It finds a voice and begins to talk to you/us/them.

Down that foggy road
Slow centipedes crawl
Plum blackberries fall
And the ground is dark as blood’

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