All pictures are a project, and hanging them, has very little to do with shame, and everything to do with how you choose to tie your own room together.
A door sliding open with the tender interest in allowing her to pass the cold steel with the blink of an eye, leaving it in her cloud of confidence, as she framed the single click of her heel seconds before the carpet captured her imprint as a cushion.
It was not possible to forget the red on the balance sheet did not seem so pleased to see, but she was able to begin to feel the sepia yellow that had been created by the silicon and the new lights the corporation had put up. It was almost unbearable on those other days, when she came here to stay, before.
The walk was a tempo, a calm union of a pearled brass circle that hummed with the touch of the brush. Long legs, and beautiful straps that were the call of many to their death at the boardroom table, or at the annual holiday events, assured themselves of the reasons they had been told to carry on.
The environment was clean, always is. That is why she racked up so many points, being away from the family. Her husband.
What a fucking asshole.
This was just one of the things she had to do, to keep the family together. It was all just part of the game.
There was never a chance of her being seen here. This was her special place, and she was able to freely touch any string she wanted to. Like the days she used to sing her own song, not having to wait for another to catch the same note. The tones were always right, and she was to tune the way she wanted to.
This was her symphony, and she was paid to take charge of mitigating the discomfort, and bringing in its stead, a calming glory that is understood only when the lines are drawn by hand.
She had time, and undressed. She would take a bath, and take advantage of the perks. Olive oil fusion, bringing the branch that would be held, and imagined as such, closer to his truncated fantasies. Scratching the window to an inner soul, hoping the mark is aural.
The rustling of the bushes of the bushes would never be heard over the trees. The forest was a place that was filled with all things natural, and it was natural to feel loved again. To feel wanted. To turn to the words of a stranger, and feel a love, and a closeness, different than any other kind you could even imagine, would mean having to perform, and she ached to perform.
It was her calling, and the audience that she had admitted to her seen, was no longer one that could satisfy her as a woman. A muse, that was capable of enchanting and thrilling.
Duration was always her focal point. Longevity, in life, in love, in lust, holding it to some kind of imaginary light, hoping to understand how long it would last, as she liked it, knowing that it was just like her own bit alias. It was her, who felt somewhat timid in trying to reach out to literal strangers, for direction and advice, but never having been a timid woman, she approached it with some discretion and a scalpel forged of caution.
Any limb catching anything that could cause harm to the body, was a severance gladly paid for a compensated reality, more blessed without it.
Mens. Fucking. Rea.
She sat and looked at the delicate rubber ducky, and thought of her child. This precious being that she had created, her forced smile came naturally. Intelligent conversation, and humor, is never a bother. Again, it is, just what was.
The door had been left open, and he knew it would be. It was nunca saldre de ella, he was in it. That was what made the experience such a dance.
He wanted the full GFE. There was little else there was time for, and somehow, it created the stir. A magic longing, for this creature, so small, so dirty, so indestructible, that you had to both despise and lust for it.
It was just natural.
Keeping it out in that kind of open, them, and watching people just pass by it all – kind of like a Coelhoen way, of being the way, that some write.
It is over, and somehow, never ends.