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by Vaughn Neeld The room, stark, white, is only warmed by the wood that reflects silvered moonlight, which lies breathless, caught, before it slithers back into the blue-black night. Trees, bewitched ghouls, lean toward unclothed windows, seek for whomever comes to occupy this ghostly space. Among the trees, the room, empty, bare, blank, hollow, holds its breath— waits.
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