Time passes. Even when it seems imposible. When each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me( . )
That was the biggest load of crap I've ever heard. I mean, look at you. You're the kind of guy who would beg for sex. And I should know, we can smell our own( . )
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mysticriver's journal