Angora clouds weep, shedding darkly on crouching grass. From the roof, indistinct muttering. On the windows, tick-tick-tickticktick. A shade of memory from some Plutonian shore.
Narcissus-X hears pallid patterings, the mutter of - what? Is this how the Artist is heard? As some somber, tenebrous impression of voice, heard beyond a roof?
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