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My Eyes Can't Adjust To The Light
I was outside for the first time in nearly nine years. Immediately it was extremely cold, vicious biting frost attacking my vulnerable frame. And it was dark, depths of hell dark. A dull silver moon hung low in the sky providing the only light, vaguely reminiscent of a dirty ten pence piece from the time before the war. I realised that I needed to move, but the cold air froze me to the spot in an instance. I shivered and stumbled and stuttered a few silent words before running endlessly into the forest. My thoughts were swampy, thick like syrup, they covered me in a deep slow confusion clouding my judgement. I was paranoid, every fern and tree and vine was an enemy, I heard voices all around me and inside of me. They were telling me what the conseqences would be if they caught me. I ran for what felt like miles, occasionally collapsing to the ground in a damaged heap for I was a broken man. But still, I dreamt of freedom...
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I view this a failed attempt to write in the style of an existing popular 'classic' author (if anyone could guess which author, that would be cool, answers on a postcard please), and I never wrote much more than this. Comments welcome of course, because I'm unsure about it, personally.
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the tea gods
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