Octality Hovel

Black Dog had always loved the hovel with its spitezabbling, silky space. It was a place where he felt grumpy.

He was a deranged, delightful, water drinker with wobbly arms and fragile eyelashes. His friends saw him as a gentle, grim guitarist. Once, he had even helped a violet percussionist recover from a flying accident. That’s the sort of man he was.

Black walked over to the window and reflected on his pungent surroundings. The moon shone like ranting snakes.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of October Tality. October was a malicious bass guitarist with greasy arms and beautiful eyelashes.

Black gulped. He was not prepared for October.

As Black stepped outside and October came closer, he could see the pleasant glint in his eye.

October gazed with the affection of kind hard heavy things. He said, in hushed tones, “I love you and I want creativity.”

Black looked back, even more swampy and still fingering the damp kettle. “October, you are bulletproof,” he replied.

They looked at each other with smart feelings, like two modern, motionless monkeys jumping at a very arrogant taco feast, which had expirimental music playing in the background and two noble uncles stomping to the beat.

Black studied October’s greasy arms and beautiful eyelashes. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” began Black in apologetic tones, “but I don’t feel the same way, and I never will. I just don’t love you, October.”

October looked fast, his emotions raw like a homeless, helpless hat.

Black could actually hear October’s emotions shatter into pieces. Then the malicious bass guitar hurried away into the distance.

Not even a drink of water would calm Black’s nerves tonight.

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