One urgent press of my crumbly stick —a drag, a mark on pulpwood fiber— and your bleached, watermark'd world is marred by my desire.
The making of my line saturates, and I Brando. I taste minerals. I maraca. I floor it.
Tight against my belly. I fold my hand over prow ribs.
Emme turns. Her arms stretch up. I let go to write again.
Everything goes. Even him. Even her. Even-stephen. Bye, you! Best goodbye!
mmm...I calm down. We will pretend this moment is forever, you and I, or I will...
I begin each day as a negative number. I zero in.
One is a win. One is whole. One is real.
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