It was one of those beautiful English summer nights when levitating on the moonshine of a moonlit world was your entranced lucky fate. The lilac shimmer of silent lakes. The whisper of ghost fox through your heartbeat. But the toad in the hand stank real. Stank through his palpitating skin. Stank of fear. Is the fabled hallucinogenic touch of toads just as Macbeth witnessed a hypnotising snare of toxic apparition? What thrilling doors of perception
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