talk


	Reach contained boat key death outside late waits eve sequence thumbnail Cleopatra daughter played don't saints once tell city music detail syntactical radiation talk healing geode Dresden		We're all talked out, all talk, all this or that, twenty four seven. I long for meat, she thinks, bloody fiber, dank scent of flesh underneath. The delicious wetness of girls, I almost creamed my jeans, I was all wet. What are we left with. Each other. We carry our sense of who we are to each other from room to room benignly like bales of hay which we set up upon the furniture, oblongate and uprightly smiling. Dankness again, this time beneath the nettly surface, a sense of inner rot. People have been known to self-immolate, explode into fire and leave only an anthill of ash. x \| & \| <