...a deathly serenade...

let him in. She followed him in, just as she
appeared a few hours before, though her thighs
became more noticeable to me— Maybe it was
puppy fat, I considered. I wasn’t quite sure, and
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
nor can the loins: Is there such thing as a moral
arousal? I really doubted it: Every facet of our best
carnal desires is saturated in the dirt. Although
people can think otherwise and throw cliche ́d
words at the throne of desire, it was all very
cognitive and scientific. Though I still wondered,
call it a human reflex: that impervious ability to
have more shit thrown at you, to the point where it
becomes all rather exhaustive and fragmentary. Yes,
that feeling seemed to have arrived just as the world
became smaller—it precipitated after a boiling
period where solutions were seen from a narrow
point of view. And then this perspective yearned
for more; it nagged and had been nagging for weeks
before, months, years even. Expanding to the point
of nothing, as it was just so much, too much: this
perspective was like two trains running parallel
simultaneously and needing to bargain a position
on both. What does this bleeding yearning want? I
started to think. Was it a fragmentary response to
something I couldn’t put my finger on, or it could
have been a moral sickness: aiding and abetting in a
deep recess. I consigned this perspective to the
back of my mind, and just looked at Leila, the girl.
Walking to immediately sit on the edge of the
unmade bed— The decoration comfortably
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