<blockquote>It begins on a dark and stormy night: doesn't it always? You're fleeing the boudoir of a personal friend, whose curves are in the right places. At least you think they're in the right places: there is always the possibility that she could be concealing eldritch non-Euclidean geometries beyond comprehension. Because, you know. Women.
You are... you have been... compromised. The Worst Muse is in your head.</blockquote>
