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Prose Nocturnes: Matri-moan-y
Each night, after dark, and each morning, before light, she reaches for me, and clutches me to her rotting frame as the stench of the grave fills my nostrils. Seven years of ghasly wedded misery, and another fifteen since she died: in death, her corpse wildly desires what, in life, her living body---as exquisitely beautiful then as it is disgustingly horrible now---aloofly despised.
