TROBAMA

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Darkness.  Like the deep, dank depths of a sewage pipe, the floor was of a smooth, cool texture, but glowing suspiciously with a cold, slimy mucous that caught the glint of an imaginary light.  It slithered across the stained marble, dragging flimsy legs behind like jelly.  It stumbled, along the bridge of slipping on the moistened marble, but never collapsed. It just rebuilt itself up, almost like an actor feigning faint.  Like the stinging pain of being drunk forever.  Never allowed to truly recover; an infinite state of motion sickness.  The annoying sway of being rapidly ripped back and forth between near-recovery and the enthralling, but painful, tickle of feign-retching.  How it perambulated the room, it's eyes almost highlighted by a non-existent illuminescence.  Their eyes locked. It's eyes pierced into his.  It's eyes stood out enough to slice through the intensity of the room like a hot knife through butter.

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