The Taste Of Hate: Walking with the Devil - T. Harris - Bog

I awake one morning with the feeling of a swollen tongue. A tongue feeling too large for my mouth. Topped with the ruggedness of hard coarse sandpaper coated with the hot burning sand straight from the Sahara Desert. As I glided the tip of my tongue across the roof of my mouth from back to front, and gently down the back of my front teeth. I felt my tongue slit in two as if it was a fork in the road, and each of those slits were split into two tails. As my tongue left passing my lips, I heard the same sounds in my head every day of snakes rattling and hissing, UNTIL!