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absence. It was the corpse of a lover that still moved, if only
            by the actions of the insects which feasted upon it. And so
            it was with Willard—dead but for the lingering madness of
            lunatics, scavenging for purpose unfathomable and fantastic.
            All of this was greatly to my liking, as even undead dreams
            could  only sweeten  my journey across a listless  world  of
            bottommost imagination.
               I continued deeper into the structure, where the darkness
            rejoined the silence beyond the echoes. I encountered many
            wide empty rooms, most of them hungry. I could feel them
            yearning to be filled with wheeling delusion and hopeless
            screams. Starvation had made them desperate, causing them
            to neglect their tenuous alliance with prosaic reality—they
            breathed with abject yearning, sweating from years of forced
            withdrawal, hoping I might cross into their aching bellies by
            means of open doors. I steered clear of the most famished
            spaces, choosing my path among  the least  threatening  of
            passages, those places where hunger had starved them into
            passivity.
               I rose upward via a stairway that swept out from the side
            of a wall, mindlessly corkscrewing around various statues
            and pillars. I was eventually led to a room speckled with
            reedy minarets that stuck up from the floor like jagged teeth.
            Strangely, the miniature towers were afforded no view of the
            sky, only a rambling brick and mortar ceiling painted with the
            likeness of one, spattered with the images of floating semi-
            human shapes, black against the grey firmament. It was at this
            point I detected a thick plume of silence rising from a small
            door. It was an oddly placed door, recessed almost invisibly
            between a pillar and a statue of a man holding a snake in his
            left hand and dangling an infant from his right. Inside was
            a progressively widening passage, opening finally into what
            appeared to be a library, of sorts. Yet instead of books, there
            were only shabby moldering journals, each one placed upon
            the neatly lined shelves with a mother’s care. The room itself
            was labyrinthine, made from a dark stone and complexed
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