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secret motel vs. lovecraft

Somewhere in 1940. He lived in green shadows of a room with rotting walls and a rotting floor. He fed paper to his typewriter to keep the fog at bay. He went out late at night. And masturbated under the streetlight. Wrapped in sheets of fog. He fed paper to his typewriter. All through the hours of green shadow. He aged quietly beneath his clothes. The women fled in different directions. And left him alone with his radio at ten o'clock. His radio and typewriter and the green shadows of isolation. He fed his manuscripts to Heaven. And Hell is waiting with lit, emtpy rooms.

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