The Past

When I was young, I dreamed every night. Most of these dreams would be nightmares, and not the luxurious night terrors some get and are granted to forget. No. These dreadful dreams burned scars in my tender, flexible brain meat. The scars deepened into sordid pock marks as my adult brain grew around the defective flesh. Crooked wormholes, that allow even more unfathomable evil to slip through to my vulnerable soul, make it possible for adult-sized monstrosities to occupy my dreaming mind. I cannot deny that they will not occur on a nightly basis. The young nightmares were simple. They mostly consisted of feelings of being chased with light paralysis. They developed into something horrendous.

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