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We watches easy we does, crouch ourselves down with our head low and our bottom low too and kneeses and elbows highest, like a little catkin in the grasses, waiting for mices to run by. Caught them already we have, yes precious, and the hobbitses have caught us. They don't think of who stalkses who, do they, precious? No. The hobbitses have the promise and the hobbitses have the Precious. The hobbitses have food that poisons our poor tongue, it does, and warm cloakses for sleeping under that burn our fingers to touch, all made by wicked elveses. And the hobbitses have this too. But nothing for poor Smeagol.

But we can watch, can't we my precious? Yes, yes, down like a catkin in the grass. And master doesn't see to say, "Leave us be, Smeagol, please," and cruel Sam-hobbit doesn't see to say, "Off with you, Gollum, or you'll get such a kicking." No. Master and Sam-hobbit sees just hobbit faces, not kneeses and elbows sticking up above the grasses. Smeagol was always good at watcheses, even before the Precious came.

Precious is hard on poor Master it is, oh yes. We know how it feels to carry, when Precious decides to be heavy. Precious can be cruel.

Master lies back, he does, and filthy Sam-hobbit pretends to be nice, says, "Lay easy," and, "Don't trouble yourself," and "Let me." Hobbitses's handses are soft and fat. Master's fingerses gets thinner, though, like branches all covered in nasty dry mud when the nice water washes the mud away. Like our handses, they'll be soon, precious. Like our handses were before the black wheels in the black tower. Smeagol's poor poor hands are twisty now.

The hobbitses touch faces with fingerses. Hobbits are beautiful peoples, even nasty Sam-hobbit is beautiful, has soft hair, he does, has fat flesh, he does, has skin soft like fishbelly, even on his cruel handses. Touch necks they do, touch skin where it shows. Near all poor Smeagol's skin shows now. His nice jacket was stolen, wasn't it precious? Yes, someone stole it when we still liked to cry by the great river, cry and eat sweet river-fisheses. And Smeagol's nice soft shirt with buttons like pretty stones, it had holeses in the elbows, and all the pretty buttons fell off. We kept them, didn't we, precious? We kept them on our sweet little island under the nice mountains, kept them by our bed made of bitses of soft shirt and bitses of soft breeches. Yes, until nothing was left. So many ageses poor Smeagol slept on hard biting stones. But hobbitses, they lay on cruel elf-cloaks that are soft for their backs, yes, and Sam-hobbit, he lays on Master, and Master is softer, softer. Yes, precious, we can see Master is soft as rabbit fur.

If Smeagol had the Precious, he could sleep on soft bedses again, yes. Oh, we wants it!

Master is too loud, so Sam-hobbit has to shush him. Master says, "Yes, there." Master says, "Oh, Sam, your mouth."

Sam-hobbit has a pink tongue like a little rabbit. Sam-hobbit calls us, "Nasty," when we digs for mud-creatures, when we digs soft little eggses from the dirt. "Nasty little blighter," says Sam-hobbit, and he says, "Wouldn't want to know." But Sam-hobbit doesn't mind tasting dirt on Master, no, does he, my precious? Oh no. He will lick Master clean like a cat with a little baby catkin. Master's body has those marks that like touching. When Sam-hobbit licks at his marks, the Master is too loud, isn't he precious?

Smeagol has such marks, yes, even now. They liked touching once. My sweetheart touched them --

Smeagol's body is dry as a sweet little fruit left under the yellow face for days and weeks. Smeagol's skin here is too tight for nice feelings, yes it is. Only Precious can let Smeagol have nice skin again, nice skin for touching.

We like to watch this part, don't we precious? Master sits up and he puts his mouth on Sam-hobbit's neck and Sam-hobbit makes a hundred little sounds like hurting, and he begs, yes, he begs to the Master. We can pretend they are real biteses, can't we? We can pretend Sam-hobbit bleeds and dies from biteses, and won't be cruel to poor Smeagol ever again.

Hobbitses like to taste inside mouths, all lipses and tongueses. Sam-hobbit probably tries to hush the Master. Yes, he hushes Master with his mouth. But what does Master want to taste Sam-hobbit for? We don't think he can taste nice, no we don't, precious. We'd be happy to eats him, we would, yes precious, but we don't think he can taste nice at all. But Master keeps mouth and mouth all touching close, however the hobbitses move. For Master, poison elf food is good to eat. For Master, nasty Sam-hobbit tastes like nice fisheses.

Sam-hobbit shows more skin to the yellow face now. Yellow face sees Master's secret place. Yellow face sees Sam-hobbit's secret place. All fat and red as blood they are.

We see them, yes, precious, we see them. If we leaps out like a cat now, maybe we catches them. Yes maybe we does. Maybe we leaps and uses our fingers and our teeth, yes. Our fingers are twisty, but strong still, aren't they, precious? We lost so many teeth and we kept them with the pretty buttons on our island, didn't we, precious? But we still have some sharp.

We could bite off soft fat secrets. We could make nasty Sam-hobbit beg, and show Master how we bites a throat. We could make poor Master easy, let him rest, yes we could, our handses just squeeze a little bit on his neck. We could, precious, oh we could. We could.

And then we'd have the Precious again.

When Sam-hobbit moves his nasty handses, Master says, "My only love." The Precious is Smeagol's only love. Smeagol has no other love left. If Master has his love, Smeagol should have his love too.

Master's back bends like bows of nasty elvses, bows for shooting sharp cruel arrows. Master only shoots little streamletses, then he stops being a bow again. He lies there, he does, and Master is a little hobbit again, and Master makes little streamletses on his cheeks too.

Master says, "Sam, my Sam, my sweet Samwise, my only love. Oh, Sam." Smeagol can remember when he was, "Sweet Smeagol," and "Smeagol my honey." I remember --

We wants it. Oh, we wants the Precious!

The Sam-hobbit moves push-push-push, he does, and makes his hurting noises again. We could make him make those noises, couldn't we, precious? With our teeth.

When the Sam-hobbit falls on soft Master, Master holds him there, precious. Master does not want to lose the Sam-hobbit. Master thinks Sam-hobbit is good as fish. Master thinks Sam-hobbit is soft as rabbit skin. Master thinks Sam-hobbit is cool-sweet as river.

We wants our Precious. We wants it. Smeagol loves the Precious, and Smeagol can't love anything else, can he, precious? Oh no, no he can't.

Poor Smeagol has lost his love.

I have lost my sweetheart --

No. No. Poor Smeagol can't help it. Poor Smeagol is squeezed down by the promise. The promise is too heavy, like stones on him, like the Precious is heavy on Master. Sam-hobbit is heavy on Master. Nasty Sam-hobbit squeezes Precious and promise and Master all under him. Oh, we hates him.

But we can watch, can't we my precious? Yes, we can watch, like a catkin in the grass.

We catches them, someday, don't we, my precious? Yes. Oh yes.

With our teeth.

Les souvenirs embellissent la vie, l'oubli seul la rend possible.
[Remembrances embellish life but forgetfulness alone makes it possible.]
- General Enrico Cialdini