Across a line that disintegrates even as it merges with the page. A habitude: une étreinte de désintégration, une bête, un romance. I am living here, it bleeds into my sense, traduit des monstres: this is what I am, a dirty, sauntering acceptance. An arrogance that lives, a tongue pressing against an incisor.
Two people holding each other in the dark. He rests his lips on the back of her neck, in a warm intersection. In that kiss is the warmth of two bodies, an occurrence coalescing at points beyond that which is discernible. A mutual darkness, for contentment is always coloured black.
Not pleased with this duelling improv. Let both halves die from senseless, inarticulate wounds.