Eyes like fine corndogs


At night when the soul is seeking whispers in the dark, I lay there, eyes open, flesh all out and sweaty, all in and questing hard. Where are the whispers? Are they hiding? Why? Do they not know my skin and spirit and organs and bones and whiskers wish for their silky pleasures? For their slithery knowledge? Where are the whispers in the dark? Come out of the shadows and tickle me sweet and deep. Let’s do this.


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