We aged quietly in an converted hotel. Succulence extorted and pressed from her shape by expectation. She's a slowly-ripened vintage from misty vineyards. Haunting and temperamental and neotenous and unrefined. We tilled the kudzu walls to let in the sunlight a drop at a time. When drunken exhaustion came, we slept with the sincerity of a murder-suicide.
9:03 p.m. - 2016-01-07
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