Magenta tossed and turned, flitting in and out of strange dreams. Rhymin Simon spouting poems about crystalline cloud forms, cointreau, capes and tarot cards. Her head was pounding like a military march, her mouth was dry, very dry. soft music was floating into the room, there was a crack in the curtians - ugghhh - that light was killing her. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK No, Simon, leave me, I've got a terrible headache. God - I'm so thirsty - I could drink a river of blood. Simon paused, nonplussed. Why the hell did she sat that?
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