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PILLMONKEY
Its four thirty Saturday morning when I finally fumble my elusive magickey into the door called salvation. Thankfully the last few hours or so arenow just a distant cocktail of multicoloured and hedonistic dreams nowburied deep within the recesses of the Freudian fun house I like to callmy subconscious. After several failed yet highly amusing attempts thedoor finally gives way, surrendering its stubborn hold to my unrelentingperseverance, opening up with Holy Grail like promises of sanctuary,warmth and sustenance. I eagerly take my hard fought prize and like anancient explorer full of anticipation for the lost arc that must surely liewithin hungrily venture forth falling willingly into the blanketed blackembrace. I carefully close the door behind me with a stealthy andsurgical like precision whilst carefully avoiding any hastily discarded shoebased pitfalls that would surely awaken the angry guardian beyond. Withthoughts of the bountiful white treasure chest spurring me on, and withmy Friday night nemesis skilfully defeated behind me I cautiously ventureonwards until the engulfing darkness swallows me whole. With refuge insight I am greeted with an ear numbing silence which to my childlikewonderment only serves to stir and exaggerate the mounting cacophonyof humming in my ears as the remnants of tunes long since laid to restcontinue to rattle around my busy skull, my brain cells reluctant tosurrender the bass spins which throughout the evening they have come to
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