He flipped his eyes open like the pages of a book. He couldn't say if twas whether or not crumpled pages littered with cringes. His eyes yet were heavy. He wanted to close them again. Pulpy pleasure fiddled with his instinct. He knew that he had no power over that feeling. Even if he did have power over it, he wasn't sure how long he would have to trail the odds. A part of him wanted him awake, but he wasn't sure whether or not he would put up with it and brace its leaning expectations. His eyelids did skip like gazelle. He didn't know what to think. The whooshing of the wind was tantamount to the crooning of a mass choir. He wasn't sure where he was. His instinct was sweeping ideas into a whole. Confetti of wishes were blown by the tempest of his curiosity. He didn't know the odds of the occurrence. He had no idea of the odds of his present state. He didn't want to nurse odd though

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