[Procedure: A story which may only consist of parts stolen from other people in this class’ stories. And only from the first six stories on each blog (I rolled a dice). And to be the most fair, you must steal something from everyone.]
Tragic. She can’t tell the difference between the two; sunk tits, a flesh deterioration. Two dull beat human beings chasing their skin and putting the bloody and the bone closer to the visible spectrum. In memory, in profile, in futility, the realization as he pumped his junk that they were not simply identical at the coffin but in flesh and in spirit. They were two oiled voices with a dearth of warmth, often impeached for a blatant ‘fuck you’ but never kicked out. Don’t be that man, that wife, the gross measure of nobody, somewhere, indefinitely. It would never change: losing track of one another, re-watching, saving horrible failings, not sure when to beat without breaking, wrists mostly weak. Stealing the remaining little colors they made, never trusting, never dying, throbbing bitterness searching for someone to torture.