My brain just puked everywhere

So, uhm. I've been told by a few people from time to time that I should do that whole stream of consciousness thing when I can't write. Just see what comes out. I always thought that was silly, and wouldn't work.

I was half right. I'm not really sure what to do with this. It's technically the fourth Mouse and Mutt piece I guess, but the tone is absolutely 900% different, and I'm fairly certain it's entirely incomprehensible. It also takes 8 pages for me to actually write anything story related. That said, I think if anyone is going to read this horrible #%*!, they may as well read all of it, including the ridiculous drivel that led to me actually getting something sort-of-kind-of done.

Be warned. This contains some pretty graphic language and imagery. NSFW, or for kids. 18+. You get it.

Here it is. I swear I'm not schizophrenic.



~~

These are words on a page.

Words that presently mean nothing in particular. Words that represent frustration, on my behalf, with my seeming inability to create something spectacular and deep and moving or at least mildly or even perhaps possibly intensely arousing because why nto and this particular train of thought is going chooo mother fucking CHOOOOOOOOOOOO and I made a typo on choo but I fixed it.

I need to stop fixing typos, like nto up above. ‘nto’, that is, with quotations, because I’m referring to something that I just typed. This is supposed to be stream of thought. Why would I fix stream of thought? I just—fuck I just did it again. I REMOVED AN IE FROM FIX. AN E. THAT ONE. NOT THE I BUT THE E> I BEFORE E WEXCEPT AFTER C.

The amazing part is that ai tyupe at a corrected 99wpm somehow, which means I generally erase thes e typos with such INCREDIBLE HASTE that my brain vomits on paper at over a hundred words perm minute even correcting for the fact that my fingers fare fudging fudgy little fuckers that continbueally fuck things up if I don’t police their every goddamn move I didn’t even type an apostrophy aopostrophy APOSTROPHE FUCKING HELL in either of those don’t/didn’t conjunction junction whats your function windows words is grammar flungion

Dungeon

These are words on a page.

What needs to happnn, obviously, is INTENSE INSPIRATIOn

Inspiration that will both guide my hands and fi x my fyping typos because GOOD GODDAMN am I  a lsoppy typer when I’m not trying REALLY HARD to be accurate, or even when I kind of am, and that’s why jesus invented the backspace button back in 2123 B.C. and eventually brought the technology to earth to share with us writerly typs

I AM FUCKING JESUS’ GENEROSITY RIGHT NOW

RIGHT IN THE EYE SOCKET

Hold on I need to remove this double spacing bullshit.

OK.

NOW I CAN SINGLE SPACE. FUCK YAH.

I don’t know how much better this is but oviously it’s more true to nhow many types TYPES WHY

TIMES MOTHERFUCKER

TIMES

TIMES I HIT ENTER

Why would I type types

Is this some kind of FERRRRr

R

FREUDIAN

SLIP

Does type mean something

Lik

LK

LIKE

LIKE FUCKING LIKE LIKE

FUCKING

GOD

Does TYPE

Mean

COK?!

With an extra c

I want to know who decided that cock needed another c

Was it not cocky enough without the c?

Was it just like

Too

Beverage?

beverage

STOP

FUCKN

FIXING THAT WORD

BEVERAGE-Y

WITHOUT THE HYPHEn

FUCKING WORD

This is my stream of consciousness goddfucking damnit and you’re ubusy blowing it RIGHT OFF THE TRACKS with you r pretentious good grammar and spelling bullshit why would you do that

hm

dsglkh

STOP AUTOCAP

thats a start

hold on

STOP AUTOCORRECT THATS

BOOYA

what about

dont

hrrrr

I have to change these one by one unless I want to change my overall settings and have to fix thema gain later

WE WILL LIVE WITH DOESN’T

BEING FIXED

DESPITE THAT NOT BEING A FIX IN THIS CASE

does not

becomes

doesnnnnnttttt

the apostrophe is a visual aid

it allows the viewer who is too fucking retarded to know that these are two words that habe

have

have

have become one word

I mean Hebrew doesn’t even ask for fucking VOWELS and English has to let us know the difference between DO NOT and DONT is that it’s pronounced DONE-T and … no that’s still dun, it’s pronounced DOHNT and I guess the apostrophe lets us know that DON IS A LONG VOWEL?

wouldn’t that make it DOHSNT

who the fuck on gladgshladgshkladgslhk

who the fuck EVEN knows

where did an o come from

this is three pages

three pages in ten minutes

is there a purpose here? who would read this? I AM GOING TO PUT THIS ON MY BLOG THAT NOBODY READS BECAUSE NOBODY READS IT ANYWAY SO WHY THE FUCK NOT

then I’ll call attention to all my friends and go HEY LOOK HOW FUNNY MY ALMOST FOUR AM FRUSTRATION IS YOU SHOULD READ THIS

and they’ll go ooooo I REMOVD AN O

they’ll go

LOL OK

and then

get to this part

and see that this was all thought of at this point of my stream of consciousness

and go

well that was a cheap thing to do

you aren’t witty at all

and ill say

FUCK YOU

MY STREAM ISNT PRODUCINGA NYHING USING

there should be like

WEREWOLVES

or VAMPIRES

or something ORIGINAL

all up in this bitch

by the rules of stream of sconsiousness for pretentious dickhats this should have turned into something deep and gratifiyingsdlkh and amaingamazingamazing type that one hunrdgsgdssg hundred times on the chalkboard timmy UNTIL YOU GET IT RIGHT

DEEP

and

GRATIFYING

and

AMAZING

about I don’t know

mouse

mutt

NOT having sex for some reason

I don’t know what their problem is

he has the dik—aahhh

she has the pssaahhh

rammstein is SO DESPARATE WHY WOULD THEY MAKE THAT SONG

much less the music video

I mean really

how lonely do you have to be to write a song about slot a in slot b that doesn’t even sound remotely cool in GERMAN

everything sounds cooler in german

maybe it’s the german words for genitals

they aren’t recogniazable and kind of funny at the same time

its not lie like like LIKELIELLIEKLIEK LIKE the Spanish words for so many things

si so I think the underlying issue is that even if they took their time

theres no german word DICKEN

or PUSSEN

PUSSEIGCH

so hat THAT

whole LETS DO IT QUICK thing is just extra icing on the really shitty cake

why am I still talkin about rammstein theyre so yesterday like oh em gee

MOUSE

WHY ARENT YOU INTO MUTT

mouse says: we’re just like omg friendsalso

he saved my life in a very dramatic scene you haven’t written yet

but you want to tell yourself you will

someday

when you finish that book

that one of THREE books you’ve started and will probably not actually ever finish

I mean lets be honest

me being you

a part of your head

the part that right now represents DOUBT and DISGSUT and a complete reprehension for the ability to type the depressing words in question

you really don’t write much

and this isn’t working out that well

but I guess if I want to be a nice part of your brain and answer WHY DID I JUST jlalishkllkj;lk;j

p

skjs

I just

ranted about correcting a nd into and

and in the process

FIXED ANOTHER WORD

THIS IS SUCH A HABIT

IT’S A GOOD HABIT

WHY AM I WORYING ABOUT IT
ok

moving on

I jjst mashed my keyboard whayayy too hard for that lksdglkhasdg thing

more like

lhgdsklgskhllhkhklklklklhklkh

anyway

MOUSE SAYS

I WONT FUCK MUTT BECAUSE

really im too clingy and I know it

ill see him again dnad aginasglkh again, thats the word im trying to type, again

and

ill get attached if I am also fucking him

attached in a way thats not

you know

MY BFF

because he already is

but in that whole

I WANT YOUR IMAGINARY UNPRODUCABLE BABIES kin d of way

and I don’t want that

why are you trying to get me to fuck mutt anyway

is it for your own very private gratification

that I want no part of

being that part of your brain that odoesnt like when youre gratified

yes, thats probably it

youre a bad man

WHATSTHIS

you wrote us to be eventual partners you say

welt hats just anasdglkhad dandy

maybe you should have thought about that before you wrote me as mildly psychotic and having PTSD and having only one legitimately good friend in the world that I know would actually literally die for me in any kind of situation that even remotely called for that kind of heroic bullshit

I wont risk o

oo

it

it

that word

I wont risk it

its

not

worth

it

or is it?

he knows me so well

better than anyone

anyone ever

he knows every part of who I am

every fiber of my being

he knows

what

i

am

and yet

I have that fear

and maybe thats it

maybe thast the hook

maybe

this

is

whatlsktj what

I should eb writing

Mouse’s eyes kkkkkkkk

k

I just stopped writing

I stopped ot think

thats not how this works

this is

MINDSHIT

BRAIN VOMIT

lets try again

mouse’s eyes were just so FUCKING GODDAMN full of those watery tear things

she couldn’t fucking see

beause she was so much crying the tears

she didn’t understand why

not really

so she’d dated a douchebag, that wasn’t a first

she’d dated douchebags before, right? so why was this one so important. why was this man so important to her life? Why was this such a big motherfucking deal? Why did she care?

The answer was probably something she didn’t want to think about, but would anyway, and would lie there for hours in bed, sleepless, red-eyed, miserable as fuck because she’s a fucking miserable person and it’s all my fault for writing her that way. I wrote her miserable. but that said, she’s entertaining that way. And she’s thinking about why this asshole was such a big deal. This asshole who’s name I forget. Hold on. I’m gonna look that up. How else is she going to rant about her boyfriend with the Japanese suffix that means SHE and that was an accident but it works so well. HOLD ON.

Maeko. What a fuck. What a goddamned fuck. That’s what she’s thinking. That’s what’s spinning in her head, just spinning, spinning and fucking spinning like her head is one of those circly things kids spin on and that’s sitting in the middle, as she whirs around it, and she gets off and it’s still spinning in her head and she can’t get away and she’s tipsy and sick and miserable and she wants to fucking VOMIT and she can’t get it out, can’t get him out, can’t claw his miserable grimey disgusting little fucking hands out of her head for the life of her

the way they touched her

outside and

in

ALL over her

all inside of her

The way he whispered to her ear, those fucking little disgusting whispers, the whispers she loved so much, croning and cooing and whispering whispering whispering so sensually so sweetly so LOVINGLY so fucking lovingly about how much he fucking adored her

How much she was everything. How his world centered around her. How he’d waited all his life. How he didn’t care if she was apsychotic bitch and had os many problems and all this trauma she would never, ever, ever, ever EVER FUCKING GET OVER>

WHY.

Why her? Why can’t she, couldn’t she, wouldn’t she, ever get her shit straightened out, ever forget, ever give it up, ever let go, ever trust, ever calm down, ever be the sweet innocent loving lustful nasty lovable little shit she was before her boyfriend got MONSTERFIED by that fucking THING and tried to kill her with a letter opening THING in the middle of fucking her and started talking about the godbeast and how he was part of the whole and how she needed to join him in eternity.

the life behind his eyes, the sorrow, the tears in his eyes as this thing talked through him, refused him, raped his mind and forced his body to be something else, to say something else, to try to kill the one person he loved, her, and forced her to take his life in defense

and then maeko

maeko said

I understand

he said he understood

and he wouldn’t push, and he wouldn’t ask, and he wouldn’t investigate, and he loved her anyway, and he could wait, and he would wait, and everything would be okay

And for the first time in so long. So long. So incredibly fucking long. She started to believe it. she trusted that man. Trusted him. Trust. It’s such a simple thing. The ability to take the things someone says at face value, to accept them as what they are, to take the basic dictionary fucking definition of what a person fucking says and accept that as the actual intention of the sentence provided with no alternative motivations and no falseness behind it, no fakery, no forged emotions and manipulative bullshit.

T R U S T.

And she finally began to give it and then WHAT.

FUCKING WHAT.

THAT MOTHER

FUCKING

PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT

HOW COULD HE FUCKING
GODDDALGLHK

all over her.

all

                                over

                her

those fucking

hands

she could still feel his fingers. long and sleek, beautiful like his face, beautiful like his skin, like his hair.

Beautiful like the promises he whispered so lovingly. Whispers. Always whispers. That gentle tone. That implied care. The love you could hear, and feel, and taste, and touch, and smell.

The love that wasn’t. The love that was false, faked, forgery. Hollywood fucking Oscar-nominated acting. The love that was there strictly to allow him as much sex as he wanted. The love that would get her to swallow. The love that would let him put his fingers where she didn’t want them. The love that would—

She felt sick. her hands grapsed the nearest trash bin, quivering, her face flushing as she wretched nothingness over its rank, disgusting maw. She glanced around, lost, lost for words and thoughts of anything but him.

She was still on the ship. Still inside. Still near him. His blood was still on her fist. His broken face. That pretty, pretty face, with a big swollen bloody knob on the front of it.

Beautiful.

She needed to leave.

Her feet were carrying her, pad pad, tap tap, slap slap, the sound of angry bare feet against artificially textured floor, floor that lit and shone and cost way too fucking goddamn much. Floor that tracked. Floor that would know she left.

She could smell it up ahead. The smell of oil, of sweat, of work. The smell of the garage, and the mechanics it held. The smell of her bike. Her beautiful, loving, always-faithful bike. Her bike that would carry her far away from here.

her footsteps changed. She was on concerete now, in the garage, listening to the clang and wham and BANG BANG! BANG!!!  of the mechanics and their tools. She shoved her hand in her pocket. Keys. When had she gotten them? Must have been when she dropped off her shit. Her secret super soldier spy movie bullshit. Living armor. It made her skin crawl. She loved the strength it gave her. It made her feel invisible, against everything, against everyone. Except this. This had ruined it. Ruined her.

She had trusted him.

She gripped the bike. Climbed on. Ran a palm across the sleak, polished metal, the quietly humming engine on the back, with all the power she could possibly want, power enough to juice the future space bullshit hover thrusters on the bottom of her beloved chrome beauty. She didn’t remember placing the key in it. She didn’t remember starting it. But it was humming. Her hands were on the grips.

She squeazed. It began to rise. Rise, rise, until two feet of air separated her from the floor below. She urged it forward, slowly, slowly, lovingly, tenderly, like the careful, guided flesh of a lover into—

CHRIST
those fucking

ucking

goddamn hands

She couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t’ be here. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t smell, couldn’t listen, couldn’t see, without seeing his fucking face, the face she just put her fist into, the face she just ruined.

The bike shot forward. The garage door hissed open, and suddenly, she was flying over open terrain. Flying toward the city. The city of locals, civilized locals, the locals they were protecting from the guerilla warriors from the neighboring nation. The locals that were brutally raped and stabbed and murdered just because they lived here, instead of there. The locals she didn;’t really give a shit about. The locals that gave her a moral justification to take a blade and drive it through the beating heart of a live, sentient person, to twist, and to smile as blood poured free from his chest.

The locals that let her sleep at night.

The city wasn’t far. The air was cool and crisp and beautiful and clean. Like home. So much like home.

It smelled like dirt. It smelled wonderful. The trees blurred into a green mush as she flew bye, a scarcely textured blur, smidges of brown at the base and endlessly shifting edges. A wave of green and brown, rising and falling. An ocean.

She missed the ocean. She hated the ocean. Why did she hate the ocean? Why did she miss it? She hated it a lot more than she missed it, which made missing it a mystery. Sand in her shorts, sand in her hair, sand in her shoes, sand in her goddamn cunt for that matter, sand fucking everywhere, she hated sand, hated hated sand and the beach and maeko and his body and his body on the beach in hers and sand

sand

sand

sand

sand

she

She was in the city. She was in the city now. Her bike hissed as it slowed, automatically, its advanced scifi bullshit sensors detecting dense life and concrete forestry up ahead and realizing, so smartly, that the open-spaces speed, that wonderful speedy blur, would get her killed in a concrete jungle.

She was gliding now, a patient pace, gliding through the streets and between cars and just barely faster than the traffic laws said she should, but if she got stopped it wouldn’t matter because she was military, so fuck it.

Where was the bar? She hovered, so patiently, so barely outside of the laws of this place, so close to respectful it almost seemed she gave a shit. She didn’t. So incredibly far from giving a shit. But, the bar. The bar would take longer if she had to excuse her speed before showing her credentials and effectively threatening an officer without a word and telling him by extention, wordlessly, breathlessly, that she did not respect him or his laws or his world or his people and she was here because this was where she was allowed to kill bad people without recourse.

The bar.

She found the bar, the glowing signs, the smell of smoke and death and cancer and whores, just outside, always the whores. SO many whores in this place. She would never understand it. They were legal. Most things were legal, if they were done right, in this place. Done correctly. Done within regulation. But so many whores. They must have gotten paid well. Was that something she should consider? Sex for money? She would never see the fuckers again, never build an attraction, and never be poor.

She would hate herself for every second of it. She hated herself now, even, for considering it. Hated. Loathed. A useless spiteful little monster, incapable of love or trust, throwing her body and heart away on a monster just because he was fucking pretty. Because her groin said, wow, this man is so attractive, you should believe what he says. Because her heart said, it’s about time, maybe you can trust this man, his words, his sweet sweet tone.

Mutt said he was a creep. Mutt tried to tell her. Mutt always knew, and she always argued, and she fucking did it anyway and he was always right. And he never rubbed it in. Even today. That was nothing. He was right. Always right. A little nudge like that, it was a gentle reminder. Listen to Mutt. Care about what mutt things, not because Mutt thinks it but because it will protect you, it will save you, and Mutt loves you and doesn’t want to see you hurt and you don’t want to disappoint him yet again.

Loves? Loves. That word. That word again. Love. Love meant care. Love meant pure intentions, right? Love meant trust.

She trusted Mutt. This much she realized. Why was it so different? Why couldn’t she just tell him? Why didn’t she want him, even as she pined for him? Why did she push him away, even as she drew him in, held him, cried in his arms? Why didn’t she just let it happen? Why hadn’t he pushed to make it happen?

Mutt knew. Why didn’t mutt try, then? Surely she would listen to him, if he was hers. If he’d made that happen.

Made? Did he have that power?

He did. Mutt could push her buttons, lead her on, break her defenses, twist her heart, wiggle past her carefully elected walls and straight between her ribs. Straight between her legs.

Mutt could make that happen. Because she trusted him. She trusted him and that made her vulnerable and Mutt could hurt her or use her any way she wanted and she would be too stupid to see it until it was too late.

But he wouldn’t. She couldn’t evne hold the thought. Mutt would never do that to her, at all, ever, ever in a million years. Mutt saved her life. Mutt was  everything. Mutt was her best friend, her only true ally, the only one she could tell everything to and yet rarely did. The only person she pushed away, the only person she blocked out, the only good man in her life and she wanted nothing to do with him that way because he was so firmly, comfortably, blissfully locked within that safe little friend zone. If he left, if he hurt her, if she hurt him, which god forbid was so much more likely

Well

She would shoot herself.

The bar door pushed open. She sat, slowly, in a bar stool, because it was a fucking bar, and every bar had to have impractical seats that didn’t support her back for no apparent reason. Why were bar stools invented? Was there a purpose? She didn’t care. She slumped forward, arms against the edge of the counter, and demanded the most expensive thing on the menu. The most expensive thing turned out to be a lot of expensive, but a single sip assured her of one thing. She would be drunk as fuck in about ten minutes. Her epically low tolerance combined with the sheer BOOZLESNESS of this drink would have her plastered, senseless, nigh helpless, if not for the fact that she carried a huge fucking knife between her tits and it was enough to scare away anyone with a lick of sense, if she needed it.

And then she saw him. Sitting there, brooding, becoming drunker by the millisecond, she saw him. The last man she trusted, before Maeko. The one who had to leave. The one who moved away. Moved away from her, broke her heart, and pursued his dreams far far away. How many had she trusted? What was she, some serial heartbreakist? No, no not really. She’d trusted this man, and he left. Two years later, she trusted Maeko, and he cheated on her with some fucking slut bag and she left him. This one, this one left on terms he considered good. Reasonable.

He was a soldier, goddamnit, and he’d been offered a promotion. Who was she to tell him not to? She never even asked him not to. She told him, go for it. Do what you need to. Don’t stay back for her.

Not an ounce of her being had meant it. Some thin shred of decency, of respect, told her she was supposed to say that. She asked Mutt, and he told her she needed to, even if she didn’t feel it. Because if she held him back, he’d resent her, and he’d leave her for realsies and it wouldn’t be on terms he considered good.

He’d hate her for it.

she couldn’t stand the thought. couldn’t stand being hated by this amazing gentle man s he trusted and loved and wanted to keep forever. She let him go, instead. And she regretted it every day. But she knew Mutt was right. The lesser of two regrets. The smaller problem.

The man saw her back. Simple name. Taron. Taron, for some reason, Tae-rawn, emphasis on the first syllable, second short. It was a weird name. Almost Sharon. But short. Simple. Taron was looking at her.

her heart stopped. her face flushed, her eyes peeled away, her drink found her lips. She swallowed. Swallowed again. Felt her body sway, felt her temperature rise, felt her bladder remind her that alcohol would make her have to pee every twenty minutes for no fucking reason and that she was perfectly within her rights to ignore that urge because she had peed just a few hours ago, goddamnit, and hadn’t had nearly enough to drink to justify this.

The man was approaching her. His lips moved. She heard adoration. Warmth. Happiness. “By the Graces,” he exalted. His arms wrapped around her.

her body shrank back, then caved. Her shoulders began to shake. Her eyes teared up, and she buried them in his shoulder, as if that would stop him from noticing.

Everything

poured

out

She was in a room. An unfamiliar room. The last two hours had been a blur. She was hardly coherent. Where was she now? Was this a hotel?

it was a hotel. Was she here to fuck him? To hold him? To confess how much she needed him, how much she needed someone who wasn’t Mutt, wasn’t quite that safe, but was trusted and loved and how the fuck could he have left her like that? For a job? A salary? A raise? What was she, an object to weigh, a minor facet of his life? Some thing he could balance against his pay check and realize that she was worth less than paid vacation and the freedom to eat out every single day? Was that so important?

He was talking to her again. Sweetly. Her anger melted, melted away, into her eyes and out onto her cheeks, a river of regret and hate and sullen evenings filled with drugs and loathing. A pool of pain, washed free from her soul, and onto his chest.

Her lips crashed into his. He blinked, pushing back. “Whoa”, she heard him whisper. He said something about watching her for the night. She heard words like ‘don’t look good’ and ‘worried’ and ‘you’, and they made a picture in her head, a painting, beautiful and desirable and oh so tangible, a painting she could fall into, and live in, if just for the moment, of his broad arms, his warm smile, his healing touch, wrapped around her soul like a father’s soothing embrace, like a lover and a mentor all in one, perhaps even a god. A mystical being, holding her heart in its palm, capable of doing anything and everything it wanted with the poor, shriveled thing, caked in tar and spite.

She was clawing at his shirt. She heard his breath pick up. She smelled that familiar smell, that stench of lust, of bodies destined to clash and grind and squirm and writhe, as if in agony, horrible inescapable, loveable, salacious, delicious, delectable agony, agony she craved and needed and yearned for. Agony she deserved. Agony she couldn’t live without. Not now. Not with him.

She heard his voice again. She didn’t care what it was saying. His pants fell, and his voice shifted. A gasp. Surprise. Her face was lower, lower still, between his thighs, his flesh between her lips, and still his voice. Shock. Protest. Love. Desire.

Agony, at its finest.

His fist was in her hair. His fist was clenching down, and it was speaking to her, and it was telling her what he wanted and what he needed, and it was telling her that the words out of his mouth weren’t true, and what he wanted was this, and this was what he would have. This was what he needed. He needed her pain, just as much as she did.

Writhing, like a worm, like a wounded animal trapped in the grip of another. Her coverings disappeared, her lips against his, against his chest, against his stomach, around his cock. His grip tightened, pulled, shifted, demanded. She was on a surface, a hard surface, a table or counter or ledge, stable, stable, holding her, never letting her fall. She was on something firm and unmovable, and he was inside of her, moving, craving, needing.

His body enveloped hers. Held hers, entirely, wholly, wrapping her meager scrawny disgusting little frame in safety and hope and love and shelter and everything she ever needed. He was moving inside of her, and he needed her, and she needed him, and she was writhing

writhing

squirming

hot air between her lips, like a cloud, a hot cloud, suffocating and holding her breath for ransom, pulling the very life out of her lungs, squeezing it, letting her grasp it just briefly between tiny gasps and moans. enough air to move, enough air to feel

never enough to think, to do anything to react, to stop, to wonder

just enough to writhe

she felt something hot, so hot and warm, an offering, a manifestation, need incarnate, so deep inside of her. her lips on her ear were whispering, telling her what happened, even as the words were lost. the story was sacred, whispered on the tones of whispers, a story composed of air and breath and the dissipation of that cloud, the return of her life to her lungs and his to his own, the quenching of need, the end of agony

a twitch

a quiver

legs that couldn’t feel

the agony had stopped, replaced by something deep and powerful and oh so real, so real, so real she could smell it and taste it on her lips, so real she could feel it inside of her, no longer moving, no longer needing

just there, sated, loving, holding, making it all go away

it was going so far away

she was flying, now, through the air, so high, so deep in his embrace

she was on another surface, so much warmer, so much softer

love incarnate, above and below

his body enveloped hers

his breath found her ear

and the world

                began

                to

                                fade