They hide, waiting for dusk to spread its seductive silence splattered with tiny chirpings of various woodlen creatures, over the vast sea of dry grass, which is teeming with wide-eyed bugs.
They climb, one hand gripping soil while one foot lunges over their head, galloping through the sleeping streets, wild and unforgiving.
They dine on the flesh of men and women laying comfortably between cotton sheets and wool blankets.
How could this be casual?
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