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    I inhale you through a pipe, the succulent vapour of your organs kicks my throat and scratches my lungs. If I see you in the afterlife, you will be my perfect pleasure: exquisite. Strayed from thought and time we will meet as foes.

    The pages in a book saw fiercely through your thoughts, your mind knocks back the allusive drink of the myth of thought, and juices run from your ears and your nose, oozing across your desk into the thin cracks of charred wood.

    I see you lying there, dead from knowledge; I wish to kiss you one last time, for your lips are much sweeter than any wine, and I would kill a man to look into your dove eyes.

    I could swallow your peanut butter skin and dine on your body, and call me a slug-and-lettuce. Love begins in a single room. It blossoms; death. Death of love and death of glory. The book that killed you lies next to your bloodied hair and reaps what it has sown, and your gangling ego cuts sharp and leaves a great scar down my finger. Perhaps it isn't your ego; perhaps with the death of beauty and love your words sharpened on a fingernail whetstone into a weapon.

    Perhaps you are cutting to harvest. Not all cutting is death. Your insomnia thickens the dust on each photograph and greases them with blood. From each angle of trembling angst the glass of the frame looks like a fibrous infection with loudly contaminated limp grey. There are teeth dug into the tapestries and roses of death growing between the tufts of ashen grass. They look at you with pejorative eyes and you can only kneel.

    With austere handsomeness and a stark resolution, the well-dressed harbinger came face-to-face with death and he divested himself of all that could palliate suffering and stood up to it with a hardy resilience. There is a certain beauty to the brevity of human life, much he thinks as he coils up your body in razor-wire ready for the life-blinking gravedigger.

    The pages of the book laugh. Fiercely. Venturing down into the deep dark dreams your soul wanders wistfully, rowing through rivers of vexation, rowing through the years of love lost in the hatred of one minute. Timeless pondering and, with you, I wish to be endless. It's now your ever-lasting moment which can't be undone.

    Men die, one moment at a time. Life is a moment. Take a shot of bone-water, drink deeply, and nail your soul to the devil's altar. The book killed you, and you are bound to Hell.

    And now I breathe you out. You were pleasant inside of me. I saw inside of you, your thoughts and memories and will were all there before my closed eyes. And now I let you go. You drift into the air and kiss the clouds, the sun still full of warmth even though it lay just above the rolling hills.
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