From the OtherLaura Cronk
What is small is smaller, suddenly. Her shoulder, small, with my hand on it, her ferociousness is something I can grip. I am so hungry for anything. Blind. With her breast on my chest, my blindness finds its course, surging. She is what I am surging towards, through, pushing in makes her beauty fragment, disperse, hover. Pushing freely now. The resistance her body makes, it is the resistance air makes for a wounded flyer. Won't she take me in farther?
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