The shivers weren’t painful anymore. Past that flesh pumped what was left onto the floor. No one really won or lost. Expectations based on rocks and mud or gold and diamonds, mutual interest or convenience. Maybe it was all kilroy was here. Someday someone will see or sense a memorial and wonder what sort of person fashioned it. He wasn’t quite sure what they said. There was time attached. He didn’t believe he would need it. The philosophy had long past. A tune dribbled in his head. He struggled to connect it. He couldn’t. It was there for a reason. It wasn’t. Lovers live romantics write. Live until they all become romantics. Then there is grey and blue and green reflected in mirrors funneled into minivans and elevators spat out on curbs sipped from cups and shot glasses. Everyone should shave with a straight razor and use the strop between times. He thought he should move. He thought he did. Only the same angles jabbed backed. A shudder. The system trying to reboot. Longer than he thought. He hadn’t planned this. He had planned the other part. The other part was tattooed inside his skin. Each inky pinprick added to a pattern. Each pain added a color. Each joy a connector to the next needle. Pin dancing leaves stains lovers don’t wash out. He had always held the other part. Kept it knowing she would need it until she did not. They seem to think there is some urgency. He though there was not. Office artists will butt over air and evidence. The file is worth reading but not keeping. System failure leaves a urine smell.

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