Sometimes, I cannot listen to a single note from her red teeth without wishing I knew what swam in her head. And wishing was to the stars what dew is to freshly planted soil – or so it would have you believe.

Because surroundings only let you see what your eyes are ready to see. And we taste so much more.

So when she dried out of her masculine outfit and forgave what I had forgot, it was already too late. Those blades of sharp wind had exhaled on me the incense of mind for the last time and I waited for gargoyles to crumble down from atop a Tiger’s fortress.

it was her, you see, tangled in a six stranded web of what ifs. She stood and blocked all progress, proud of her incapability and all of the falsehoods a soldier forces themselves to believe in.

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