Is it the alcohol that which drives warmth to my cheeks, to then run straight to my trembling lips, unable to utter the slightest sort of phrase, of whisper, of moan? Is it that I can actually feel shame, embarrassment, hesitation? Am I that irresolute? I do feel like running out to aisles and aisles of books, which drip thoughts of absence, which drain this flame away, which dictate I am a rational animal. Yet, I stay indoors, looking at these laughing walls, which look down on me and say, you are helpless, you are tiny, you feel yourself blush, and whether you fucking endorse ir or not, you love being sunk in this lustful anguish, bowing your head to disgrace, and as if it were a mantra you tell yourself there's nothing else you want like this. Go shower son, for the day is coming, and it is ok to doubt you will be able to make it.

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