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Out of context: Reply #1584
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- TheTeacher0
Brooke, Brooke, Brooke.
Such a naive little soul you are, quite quaint you might say. Butterflies and flowers grow about you like a soppy little vector drawing penned by some squeamish little student still wet behind the ears with the blood of fingernail cuts given by his roman catholic tutor as he earnt his grades, gagging on his seething bar of flesh, a phallus scarred with warts and an aroma remniscent of chorizo fused with parmesan. Wondering in his guilt if this is what his well to do parents had paid his tuition fees for, was this their dark plan?
That is what grows around you Brooke with your soppy talk of hope and happiness, its as if you are so weak and lost that your mind has created a mindscape of its own, a virtual landscape where nothing can hurt you and everything will go just fine. A little lamb you are yet your field is not as lush and green as you imagine. This field is my field Brooke, all the fields are mine for I am the farmer of hatred on this pathetic planet, I sow the seeds and scatter the darkness on the ground, your blood runs in the fallows as I harvest your sallow flesh, the sickles and sythes of a thousand farmhands slashing at your flesh, returning you to the dirt, back to the earth where you belong, back with the earthworms and the lice you little weasel of naivety. Come back when I have taught you the lessons of your life, come back when you are ready but don't be long for I am waiting, I am waiting under your bed, you can hear me breathing can't you? I am there - you can look but you can't see. I am there alright, make no mistake, I am there and you like it, you like it alright.