My resolve has been laid to rest, and my security and sanity with it. Dead on arrival, maybe even before that. Maybe from the moment our lips first touched, from the moment I thought of that number with that article in front of it, even though my concept of time has been worked and reworked and reworked again. The pretensions fall apart at the seams I so poorly stitched, and what's revealed, what lies beneath, is the soft underbelly I hide even from myself. What now, she asks me. What now?
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