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Yes! A crazy hunger has seized hold of him, and his fingers are to his mouth. I have nowhere else to go! Nowhere! Good. Good. She is kneeling too, the camera carefully placed on the floor. Later, when he is asleep, she will take a photo, for every man who speaks ill of the imperials needs to reported, or at least that is the dictum, but she is unsure if she will obey it - at least, not immediately. For now, she will abuse this man, because he is the only link she has left to that distant past, and she is desperate to see those dark eyes again, even though they have been occluded with age. The old man is in her arms, his face pressed to her clothed breast, his lips puckered against the fabric, the action suggesting lasciviousness, or a return to an infantile state. She puts her hands to his face, the grease of the makeup slippery  |
against her fingers, and holds him there, an embrace that smothers him entirely. *** The warrior frowns; it is so easy to be distracted these days by the accoutrements of life, the bits of flotsam that float through the average day. The particular smell of the eucalyptus tree outside an encampment, almost like turpentine. A mutilated playing card found on the roadside, the jack of spades decapitated cleanly at the throat. Currently snatches of popular songs peal away in his head as single mass of unrelated lyrics. His lips unconsciously mouth words: Like a bird I fly, when you are easily hurt you are easily loved, I'll be seeing you in those familiar places…  |
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