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It hides in a forest of keys, typing words that sink into my soil. I'd feed it mushrooms, If it only showed its face. Hidden warts and claws, behind white light
You probably have many friends And don't want to be bothered By a friend of friends Who you may not know well. Well, if you want to see The finest side of me, Which warms like sunlights
I speak to the dead, After I have wasted three and ninety lockpicks Just to get a potato out of a long forgotten box. How is it not rotten? I really need to get to Whiterun but Lydia blocks me in the hallway.