I had embroidered the fable that we were built of brick, no straw in our story, no crumbs to be pilfered by starlings. If you were the youngest son. If I were skilled at transforming frogs. If fairies had not turned queer. As it is, princes are slaughtered, virgins die virgins. The paths through our plundered forest are endless. Stay away! I am here in the land of pigs where even your breath can blow my house in.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com