Sometimes reality and fiction get so mixed up in my head that all I can do is drink a glass of displeasurable wine from the neck of a giraffe. Curl my knotted legs into the base of the chair and read over these two measly pages of revision as if they were some kind of accomplishment. Like sucking the tangy salt reside of long forgotten chips from a discarded bag on my desk off my fingertips. The lone memory of the eyes of your face hovering over mine. Vinegar + tongue = your orgasmic breathing face. Press my tongue into the narrow ravine of my own palate. Dream of sleep. Of accomplishment. All I can do now--draw out the word fuck with unnecessary extra vowels. Caught in my throat like wild desperate birds of prey.

[cribbed from late conversation with pig]

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