Not my object, my thing, my fantasy. I'm looking- but I can't fix him in my sights. More and less human than us, he reddens easily. The scuffs of living come up tender on his skin. Not a story of the past, but still some map of pain. His surface cracks under pressure, grabs destruction from heat, weeps mucous tears. No lubricant to ease this brittleness - being wet just means being more sore.



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