“Any second now,” she says.
With my eyes closed, I bite the air the same as her. It tastes of cherry pie and the flesh of her pelvis. As the sensations become almost too much for me to bear, I feel the bubbles of time and space popping inside of my mind. The moments contained within them break their chains, and all around me, the ghosts from my past play piggy in the middle with the relic I am. Flux this, and flux that. The first of the spunk leaks from my cock, but the rest—the good stuff—is still trying to work its way out of me. It’s travelled from the birth of the universe, and although it will soon splash down on some poor cunt’s head before dying beneath the midnight sun, it will have its moment. We all have our moments, even those among us like the cunt on his hands and knees, but an artist can have them as many times as they want. Like serial killers, we keep our souvenirs. They act as the lube that allows us to travel back and forth between the walls so many will waste a lifetime trying to break down. We just walk through them. The rules don’t apply to us. Never did. Never will. Walls don’t mean shit. Doors, on the other hand… Whether or not there’s a door in the tree, or the tree is the door, I’m moving through time, and even though I’ll soon be dead like my soon to be wasted spunk, because of the doors, I’ve found a way to cheat this place, and here I am, existing like a phantom; red with rage and beyond the snatching hands of fate.
“Are you ready?” she growls.
Swaying on my branch as her hand works its magic, I search for verse too beautiful for words, and although I won’t remember everything that appears, the sepia kiss of their curves is one that never leaves.