little gnome i am, cringing. little gargoyle with knees pressed to my chest, resting blowing kisses off the roof into the rain. bitter old curmudgeon hell-bent on sympathy, tapping every trunk and waiting patiently for it to flow into a stock enough to boil down in the final house, the descendent one, spent alone with a syrup spoon.
a little goon, glutton glowering away the chance to catch what might sit and sing into the evening, if singing is what it heard midday.
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