Yeah. You know the feeling.

Yeah. You know the one. That little craving that spurs itself on inside the stomach, acquainted though uninvited. It purrs and claws at your guts while you feign a smile toward the unknown. Yeah. You know the one. That sickly churning, washing machine mechanism of you’re not quite sure; of bewildering light below the sunset at the end of that symbolic American dual carriageway. The destination to your answers. Yeah. You know the one. That mystical wizardry, pointy hat embellished with half crescents visibly bobbing up and down through the thick smog of mystery, caverned within the confines of a cosy, wooded camp fire. Yeah. You know the one. The lick of stranger whilst blindfolded having never met before, and boy, what an introduction. Walking the plank in to the depths of uninhibited salty pleasures, unbeknown to you what lies beneath the crystal clear covers. Yeah. You know the one. You know it as much as I do. You know that you know not of it.

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