( There's a chapel. It's silly and gargantuan and fairytale gothic and wrong, it's all wrong, but Western media will love it and that's call for five, six, seven, eight when her assistant's down the caffeine and codeine breakfast of champions to crawl forth with her agenda. Ring-ring: time to make leaks, squeaks and propaganda dreams happen. It's hard, being a modern-age virgin-whore prodigy at work.
Harder still, startling awake on forcible vacation. Blink and you miss it, five-star mansion experience and the deluxe package perks counting. She didn't even extort or expense this. Fine. Abduction and adventure happen, and there are sharp, bright things wherever the hand touches, after she's drifted, bare feet dragging and dregs of her studiedly sophisticated lingerie snagged, from bed to bathroom to the great outdoors. It's a toothbrush first, head splintered down to a stabbing point; a fireplace poker first after; finally, a dinner knife first, blunted but old faithful.
In bright, blighting daylight and the Pantone oversaturation of groomed grass radiating a crisp-sharp stench, Sun-ah's headache blooms to a migraine. Brews and boils and maybe takes root, enough that she's — uncooperative by the time of her rigid encounter with the stranger-danger, first proper soul in sight. The knife's a darling disposition, warm in her sun-kissed hand, mouth blandly agape and gaze mellow, latching onto the woman's bastardly silhouette, her silent equivocation.
Bitch should learn to dress. )
...ha? ( Noon service. Priests. Fuck the communal afterlife, at least get her a private exorcism. Her head's swimming, drowning, mould-spored. Cotton, tearing. Spiders without legs, let alone webs. She blinks, hard, and the girl-woman's still there, and the knife's sinking tragically like bad luck coaxed to the pocket of her bed robe. )
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( There's a chapel. It's silly and gargantuan and fairytale gothic and wrong, it's all wrong, but Western media will love it and that's call for five, six, seven, eight when her assistant's down the caffeine and codeine breakfast of champions to crawl forth with her agenda. Ring-ring: time to make leaks, squeaks and propaganda dreams happen. It's hard, being a modern-age virgin-whore prodigy at work.
Harder still, startling awake on forcible vacation. Blink and you miss it, five-star mansion experience and the deluxe package perks counting. She didn't even extort or expense this. Fine. Abduction and adventure happen, and there are sharp, bright things wherever the hand touches, after she's drifted, bare feet dragging and dregs of her studiedly sophisticated lingerie snagged, from bed to bathroom to the great outdoors. It's a toothbrush first, head splintered down to a stabbing point; a fireplace poker first after; finally, a dinner knife first, blunted but old faithful.
In bright, blighting daylight and the Pantone oversaturation of groomed grass radiating a crisp-sharp stench, Sun-ah's headache blooms to a migraine. Brews and boils and maybe takes root, enough that she's — uncooperative by the time of her rigid encounter with the stranger-danger, first proper soul in sight. The knife's a darling disposition, warm in her sun-kissed hand, mouth blandly agape and gaze mellow, latching onto the woman's bastardly silhouette, her silent equivocation.
Bitch should learn to dress. )
...ha? ( Noon service. Priests. Fuck the communal afterlife, at least get her a private exorcism. Her head's swimming, drowning, mould-spored. Cotton, tearing. Spiders without legs, let alone webs. She blinks, hard, and the girl-woman's still there, and the knife's sinking tragically like bad luck coaxed to the pocket of her bed robe. )
Looking to get on your knees?