Wood, in a taunting tone. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. “Um, okay. You can enjoy him and then drink him up. I can't invent; the thing won't come. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over.
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