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“Mike Devine loomed up again, trying not to lose sight of that hole in the trembling light. He wasn’t sure if it was the matrix of luminescence and shadow, but the gravedigger was almost certain the black mass of mould — the scab — pulsed ever so slightly, like a dying pockmarked blackened heart.” — Jonathan Dunne
Mike Devine loomed up again, trying not to lose sight of that hole in the trembling light. He wasn’t sure if it was the matrix of luminescence and shadow, but the gravedigger was almost certain the black mass of mould — the scab — pulsed ever so slightly, like a dying pockmarked blackened heart.