My name is Mr. Touchshriek, of Touchshriek with mail over and fantasy. My shop sells egg shells off the shesores and empty females.
I'm thinking of leasing the room above my shop to a Mr. Walloff Domburg, a reject from the world wide Internet. He's a broken man. I'm also a broken man.
It would be nice to have company. We could have great conversations, looking through windows for demons and watching the young advance in all electric.
Some of the houses around here still have inhabitants in them. I'm not sure if they're from this country or not. I don't get to speak much to anyone, or that sort of thing.
If I had another broken name... Oh, I dream of something like that.
