The sandals are precariously constructed with rope and lace tied around the feet. As you make your way to the stage someone steps on your foot, pinning you to the ground. It stays there. You could kill. You could cry.
You realize the potential of this feeling. It will propell you to immeasurable heights of vocal bitchiness.
'squint, look askance, Richard!'
your hand slides across your lips as a diphthong gets itself ready.
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