Hollow Body

Pity Sex - Feast of Love

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You live in the back of my throat. Folded up there. A memento.
Your scent. Your memory. Muted and momentary. Heavy. The smell of sleep. Reminiscent. Bittersweet.
Once I laid my head on you. Inhaled to match your rhythm. As if somehow that’d bind us close together indelibly.
You live in my cavities. Empty spaces of my body. Your voice. Your memory. Planted deep. A pit inside me.


'Theories of why (I'm a bad person)', Sophie Watkins, 2013.


Chicago, Illinois


Just before nightfall I decided to take a walk outside. The sky was low, enveloping any object in its reach. It formed a dull, purplish haze - like nothing I’d seen before. The streets were empty. Not a single soul was out. It was oddly peaceful - imagining I was the only one left.


La Morte non esiste più.

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