our differences are in their infancy at the body's showtime β the race of will and safe word.
cenotaph of the ***** β bloodshot and weary.
industrial art, and the big old I think of you at the start of my masturbatory routine - afternoons where work is distant, and how ****** is asphyxiation when the automaton is dressed like a pretense?
wow.
i am so lost against this notion of an integral shudder. i am lost like the hatchling stranded on planet pergola, dead before it hits the ground.
there is no admitting faults to lamplight in late evening, there is no real security in the gap made between his steadfastness and my submission.
there is only the light of our latest endeavours shining sickly on wet genitals, and mutual nervousness cooling off under a ceiling fan.