So …

  Listen carefully to the sound of your own heart beating. The sky around you is darkening. The mares of night race through the dusty streets. You are in this moment the Prodigal son returning home. It has been years since you last saw the starry skies over your birthplace. The streets are unwelcoming. Those who pass by gaze upon you with disgust. Why not? After all you are clad in the entrails of pigs. You reek of vomit and your disheveled hair is crowned with sores. Listen. Do not let this moment pass you by. Latch on to the feeling. For there is a lump in your throat. The men drag you to the center of the market. Their hands mean and fierce make no attempt to cover your nakedness. Who are you? Not the lowly tavern wench. You are not even the local harlot, but you are a mother caught in a minute of indiscretion with another. They drag you

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