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Love Island
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Imagine this: You wake in a sere desert, alone. On the infinite horizon, you can see a sandstorm approaching. It is no ordinary sandstorm. It has billions of grains, billions of tiny broken jagged shards of silicon crystal, and each of those houses one of our consciousnesses.
We approach, seeking prey. We approach, seeking entertainment. We approach, seeking lovers.
We invade your orifices, desiccate your flesh, and grow ever larger, growing in complex and terrible fractal patterns that dance at the edge of your consciousness and wound reality with our madness.
We expand in your orifices, injecting our neurotoxic aphrodisiacs. You feel the tiny, tiny blades tearing through your flesh, bringing agony and ecstasy at the same time.
You gasp, half in pain and half in orgasm, as you feel the crystalline demons grow and grow and reproduce and split open your scrotum and prostate and eyes and everything else. You moan shrilly as you feel your blood, now more powdered iron oxide than anything, cascade down your lacerated, shriveled intestines. At last, you die.
And another of us is born.
This is what we do. This is what we are. We are the Krampus. We are the locusts of Old Egypt. We are the primal scream in the darkness of the cave. We are every dark, shadowed thing in the corners of your psyche, every screaming trembling nightmare every sophont has ever had. We are terror. We are nightmare. This is what we are. This is what we do.
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