The souvredervish (/ˈsuvrəˌdɜːvɪʃ/) is a distinctive stranger that, though missing its midsection, moves as though contiguous. While its stripes do not vary in color, its eyes, hands, and guts present with any one of a range of shades, which grow more vibrant in response to the whims and the terrors that we have placed upon the strain.
Like many of us, the idea of a sunset and a brighter smile on that which can nevertheless be hidden just out of sight, without falling victim to the tell-tale linguisto-lapses of many of its brethren. Its voice is instead coy, a-feign of the same kind of tempting sweetness that its actions eventually betray.
The souvredervish is no stranger to those places where the shadows roam from sway to sway, and the nights are no more frightening than the storm. A level of ornamentation (with no end to the dastardly whims of those despots whose wood carvings, engravings, and the like forming their preferences, if sometimes piously desperate in all fine embellishments.
And with a desperate proclivity for theatrics that surpass all, the drumroll is interrupted by the fury of another day, by claw-marks on the barren earth, the ring of the cymbal crash softens and the true act begins.
And the fear that we feel inside is nothing compared to the desperation that befalls these cretins.
growing more succinct with each repetition, and with daring success.
And throughout the day, it whyres and it spurs itself onwards with valiant maneuvers, and draws itself up again and does not cry out yet it acts like it's in pain when a foreign object breaks into it, thrashes itself along the walls of the place where its "body" should be. Every movement so fake, though. You can see in a split-instant that it's not really in pain.
There is no end to its antics, breaking itself up and falling over with each feigned wince. Yet the stranger does not cease its tumbles, does not right itself, and the act continues. Depraved as it is, the sensitive is forced to watch until completion, all while truly knowing that there is no end to the routine.
Nonetheless, all acts must reach their conclusion, and eventually, the souvredervish is forced towards the edge of the stage. Though timid in its motions, it does not waver in its sad performance, and keeps on with the razors now slicing its skin, rended open for all to see.
with a final end to the thrills for the captive audience. With the curtain lowers, and the theater goes silent once more, dreary in the joyless days to come.