We sit and talk of inane things while cotton candy burns in the teal sky. A line of tattooed regrets is marched by the locked front door. She undresses casually, without breaking speech about gardening, or cooking, or who knows what. He responds mechanically, while his concrete eyes both drink and dissect her pale moon shape. She hides her magnificent waste behind an eggshell sheet. Neither can answer whether it's eternity of What-Has-Been, or precursor to an infinity of Nows. There's a traditional knock at the door.
11:11 a.m. - 2016-03-18
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