Dear Landlord: It seems like ages since

Dear Landlord: It seems like ages since we last spoke. The puddle of unknown liquid that is dripping from my living room ceiling has spread now to the bedroom, right over my bed,

I requested that you bring a exterminator to look into the ichor. Since its over my bed, my sleeping habits haven't been feelneksjrnjka the fumes arehgjrkslf. Please send kfe,298@8

The ichor unspooled its gas lines. Clouds of infinite darkness folded in on themselves like mashed up nightmares. Slowly the Nim lines lowered and entered my nostrils

via my eyelids. A light appeared in the darkness. A single point of luminous energy surrounded by the ichor's gaseous void. I breathed through my urethra so as not to

disturb Miss Nervaura with my gravelly palmspeak. "Would you donate some of your ichor, immortal one?" I asked. "Gold standard and all. Valuable stuff." Door-to-door ichor begging

moolah. I called Medea. "You want me to remove a nail blocking the one vein in his body and drain ichor?" she screeched. "Don't worry love," I placated,"I'll even give you a bucket

to put over your head while I do it & so that I don't have to hear you screech like that again. I placed the bucket over Medea's head & continued operating on Ichor. Medea was very

demanding in general, but during the harvest would prove quite helpful. She kept the scythes sharp for us field-hands as we plodded through the abundant crop and lopped off the

ends of the stalks with lazy, sloppy maneuvers. All so the upper crust can have their precious corsages to smell "nice" and have "sex" with each other while we toil away. Slavery.