Red Hot Daggers
Waking up in a cold sweat, the silence of night is deafening. Surrounded by a blackness so tangible it's suffocating. But somewhere in all of this there are echoes like tendrils of melodies ebbing at the mind. Residual dreamscapes flash on the backs of eyelids. There was something to remember, but it is forgotten...
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• Posted Wednesday, March 07, 2007