I once knew a guy who claimed to be a vampire. He dressed all in black, even in the summer, and constantly sketched nude long-toothed women. Never saw him turn into a bat, though. Or mist. Or a pile of rats. And he seemed to prefer Taco Bell to the blood of virgins. I don’t think he was a real vampire.

Here’s a poem.

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Undeath’s unending
Time yields its incessant pull
Hobbies are vital

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