I detest underestimating your potential for fury — or, for that matter, comprehension — but my viscera tells me that you would find the snarling rictus of an animal if you only looked long enough.
This violence — this violent flame — is the only gift I can offer you. No altruistic tenderness — not a single sweet nothing to utter in the darkness of coital languor, or exhibitionist onanism — just this utterly conditional enfer noir which is my tainted adoration of all the angels from antiquity that so cleverly perfect their mimicry of the inimitable sphinx with silent demands.
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Harried Carrie |