Muscles and sinews containing people meet and join and undulate against one another in a language too poignant to be spoken. Suddenly, quietly, i lose anchor and i am falling, slipping out of this reality and into my own. My eyes refocus and i vortex into the vision of her body, every line of it rebranding itself into me with unerring memory of
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but humble mind cannot go beyond the words (specifically, but not only: "YOUR pleasure, your own brand of masochism"), for it cannot perceive these dreamlike images in any way but differently, not being overwhelmed by the enormity of loneliness and utter escape... Why allow the degree? ... Unless, of course, it is a work of beautiful fiction...
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