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Hawthorne Sublet
Makeshift curtains from Iron Maiden flags; water-damaged bedspreads, threadbare laundry bags. It keeps the light out, but can't deflect the shame that you've scattered liberally through your domain. And now apparitions both far and near, they keep telling you that you're wrong. They keep whispering in your ear. It sounds vaguely like a song. They're begging you to sing along.
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