The pestilence of the self reflections in the land of cracked mirrors. Winding down the corridors of silky maidens with Victorian methods of madness.

Hear the sound of a twisted tinkerbell.

2 Comments on “The pestilence of the self reflections in the land of cracked mirrors. Winding down the corridors of silky maidens with Victorian methods of madness.

  1. I do not rest in your wicked garden. Instead I tear my flesh from the bone, so that you may have something to eat in the morning.

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