Of shock. Of dread. Of this shock, redressed. A man in the flesh, engaged, incensed. Stock-still. Undressed. What a fucking mess. Our fucking gone-too-farness. The foregone conclusion is boredom, I guess. Like sailors pressed into duty on a ship, we measure the length of our endless trip in knots. Raise wet canvases of nots and wait for wind to strip the deck. I tell knock-knock jokes. You either laugh, or you don't. My easy consonance. Your queasy countenance. A stray tucked back in place. Our come-uppance. I didn't see the glass. I didn't notice your eyes. I've not gone crazy yet (though, it's implied). But the floor’s declared a war. and I propose a truce. Truth is: There isn't any more to lose.
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