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Dancing #61

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Such nightmares have no existence in reality, surely? Still prone, I felt my forehead. As I supposed, a fever burned there; my cheeks too, so hot that the occasional tear I shed dried as I wept them. I watched my hands tremble. Nausea glowered in the pit of my stomach.
That was it, then. A fevered nightmare. The horror of being forced to dance with the dead, of dancing until I, too, died: and then of dancing forever, for all eternity, with no hope of rest or salvation! It was all little more than an anxious mind in fevered sleep.

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