A pulse is writhing. It hollows from inside, and reaches the darkness outside. It boils on my skin, spurting blood in the air; infecting the night. Corruption throbs and spills from my guts. More, more, and still more. The guilt fascinates me. It encloses me into its familiar comfort. Jump, run, fall. Do something. Pouring idle thoughts on crutches of leisure is a consuming hobby. Once you're addicted, you can't stand up. Is it a tragedy to not belong anywhere?
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