Were Naphthalene a city of crystals in the night, and sublimated urges robbed Achilles of his might, then Narcussus-X would ponder under darkly lowering skies as inchoate myrmidons run swiftly to intoxicating toys. And elusive mothballs carry Priam's people far away, for the poet profits little when the piper asks for pay.
Narcissus-X ponders dim visions, gliding on dark crystals across a sunless sea.
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