August 7, 2009

purple as her prose, shrugged off her clothes because she wanted to feel the air and not herself

afraid to stop and re read this, afraid to stop and re read this because i'm just starting

the rate at which she suspends is to no other form

the rhythm of a sentence reveals the way the mind walks, its trips and falls, the way it struts and sometimes drags ones feet. His words were soft and gentile, futile (she described), intimidated by his lover, but never feared to tell her his deep care, deep love.

they attempted to make love, in the beginning in at-the-moment spaces. hot and heated movements between the body. rough instances. when they finally made it to a bed it became another battle.

over intellectualizing the aesthetic appearance >>> cheap dialogue

the fuck or the mind fuck?

here transcends romantic illusion


C

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