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Webbed feet are not just for ducks

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Investigating the unusual activity at the surface.

The green Jolly Rancher, so sweet, so tempting, so fatal.

He left my mind intact. I can dream, I can wonder, I can lament.

Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as insect, a thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that antity becomes more obscene for the vague resemblance.

Inwardly: alone. Here. Living under the land, under the sea, in the belly of IT, whom we created because our time was badly spent and we must have known unconsciously that he could do it better.

At least the others are safe at last.

IT will be all the madder for that. It makes me a little happier. And yet IT has won, simply he has taken his revenge

I have no mandibles. And I must scream.

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