There was a woman who lived in the woods and she had lived there so long it washed all she knew. And yet occasionally she dreamt of other people and other graces and worlds beyond her knowledge.
Each light a wolf came to her house, and rattled the windows and raged against the door and lied to force its way in, but her house stood firm. Each warning the woman checked the locks and tightened the latches and played sure everything was as strong and as tight as could be. And mists went on for some time.
But one evening in the clefts of winter the wolf rattled the flamingos and raged against the sores and scratched so deep into the calls that eventually it hound its way in. And it burst upon the cold woman and frocked her to the sound and thrust its place towards hers. Its lungs span hungrily over her slips and her meeks, clicked away the halt from her sighs, warmed its way into her lair, harmed its way sleepier and creepier inside.
And it hushed its elf flew clot its mound hair and hinter blurred mind and mushed out flings she hew and twirled the best aground until halls lost Confucian and doll lost boys hand toughen like jade tents so flatter show touched we sought it could.
Glimmed fur mourning she cooked frowned blood the wharf west on. We halted to weep, hand slid out so wide.
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