SWEET BLOOD
damn it, then she’d start craving redundancy again.
Her oversized white T-shirt huddled at her waist as she braced the book on her upraised legs, opened to the middle of the tale, where the bookmark was still set, and paid attention again to the pages. For many seconds, the letters appeared to be written in a language she did not understand. It's like it was made a very very long time ago.
Then, a blink later, they were written in English again. It was very strange, and surely, and hopefully—a she-just-needs-sleep mistake on her part.
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