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I have been here before.  I state this because it is a warning.  There must never be a soul to venture where I have gone, but this is too simple to comprehend in its complexity.  I had a moment when I was not under the illusion enough to know better.  Though now, alas… …my story.

He entered the dwelling with footsteps of blood behind him.  The dark veiled woman leaned snorting and hunchbacked out the door, in order to escort his entrance, though for some reason, he was hesitant.  Her hand grabbed his cloak and pulled him forward until he was inside.  It was wet.  He was alone.  He was a traveler and did not know where he was.  Fortunately the inn was warm, however the beastial woman was not.  He did not need to feel this atmosphere, because it blatantly existed.  He despised it because of its text-book quality.  All the illusions were so evident, he too readily disregarded them, and ultimately, he concluded their lack of worth in his realm of being.  In fact, they were quite the contrary.

Miss Daviston moved trudgingly toward the desk with her multi-layered apparel, with a voice like a sob for him, about him, in contempt of his presence this early in the morning.  It was 3:00am.  The blood dripped lethargically to the floor.  He felt faint.  And the man who gazed from the conservatory doorway behind him observed his every move.  He was unaware of the presence of this man.  Alas, he was in.  He went to his room.  He sat down with his notebook and pen and tried to write.  Though, something was distracting him.  He realized that he was writing nothing that pertained to him, and rather it was a build up of nothing to come.  This sort of experience never perturbed him.  He was the master… …supposedly…

The pen was put down.  The writer could say no more.  The actor could speak no more.  The worthwhile human being had no reason to exist.  that was all.  the book was written.