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Life is too short for boring stories

There was no moon. And also no stars. Naked we lay. On the bed. Half covered. Half uncovered. You on your back. The arms. Left and right. The head on the cushion. Breathing Asleep. Middle of the night. Three and four. Or four and five. I can be wrong. I’m wrong. I’m always wrong. I’m lost. Also in the bed, just strayed. Intermediate station. In one day. In a bed. In one day. In one night. In a sparkle. In a dullness. Nothing else. Lost. To life. Somehow you have to spend it. The day. The night. Three and four. Or four and five. The bodies are dull. Colorless. I at your side. Feelings keep alive. Feel maintains the appearance of liveliness. Not a day. At night. Something is reaching for me. It goes when I feel. It is enough if I feel myself. Often. Not always. If it is not enough. I feel you. It creeps away. That which reaches for me. I’m lying on the side. My stomach touches your loins. I am sleeping. And then no more. My head on your shoulder. Your arm around me. The one. The other is open. No content. You sleep. You do not leave it. I close my eyes. Wants me back. It does not work. I open my eyes. You’re there. Still. I feel you. But that can be a deception. I see you. But it can be a deception. My hand is touching your breast. Your belly. Your loins. I make sure. Sleep does not let you go. I will not let you go. You will not let go of me. In one night. In one day. I press on you more firmly. As tight as I can. It does not change anything. Not even at the wrong. At the confusion. Am being strayed in life. In one night. In one day. Lift the head. Once again. I see our bodies. A fine line. Where it gets darker. There is no real unity. Always is this line. Separation. Relapse into the aberration. Live. Everything else is waste. Day after day. Night at night. Pale body. Meat body. Blood cells. My ear itch. My hand is at your side. My ear is asking for the hand that scrapes it. The itching should stop. I press my hand to your side. Itching intensifies. I do not want to give in. I claw myself. The urge is overpowering. When I give the hand away. If you allow it. If you do not wake up. If you do not grab the hand and hold it. The urge becomes intolerable. A handing over of the hand. A short scratch. At the ear. Nothing happens. I’ve gotten away again. But it would have affected you. The itching returns. Even stronger. It worked once. It can work again. I take my hand away again. I scratch. I start with it. The itching does not go. It is increasing. I scratch. Always stronger. The itching becomes stronger. The nails scratch the skin. First layer. Second layer. Third layer. Always on. The ear is burning. It feels like hot. The itching intensifies. The bodies are motionless. Sleeping. Meat. The first drop of blood snakes over my fingers. Through Followed by others. Drip. Drip. Drip. On your chest. On your stomach. Pale, naked body. The drop falls. Where it falls, the body dissolves. Meat. Also. I scratch. It itches. The skin under my nails. The meat under my nails. Resolution. In front of my eyes you dissolve. In a confusion. The blood drips. Always. Always more resolution. No mess. You go. Just more. The blood drips. You are the resolution. The final solution. The redemption. Jesus disappeared on the cross in blood. The meat on the cross has disappeared. The blood drips. Until it is dripped. Until you have dissolved. And I wake up. I am very close to your site. I need to feel to know that life is still there. My hand at your side. A moonless night. Pale body. Three and four. Or four and five. I lift my head. A little. I feel an itch on my ear. Still, we have been lost in the mistakes. Even those of the flesh. And the blood.

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