The Bullhorn of SILVER BROWN

“Something just moved…”


The gargantuan literary tentacle with ten thousand eyes and ten thousand tongues protruding out of the left side my gut is about to molt again. I can feel those characteristic hormones and enzymes it emits burning the walls of my blood vessels. Like an über-hot red mustard that makes wasabi seem like mayonnaise by comparison. Only felt instead of tasted. The thing seems to time the eclosion of its instars with the phases of the earth, to drink in the energy of the sun. Or something like that.

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