I flashed on the first time I’d seen Sailor, in that club…and thought she was a hooker…knew she was a hooker.  And I’d never shared it; I never would.  But there was this woman, who at first blush had struck me hard, so hard, as someone who slung her trade on the street, that I’d reflected on my life, and how I, “the artist”, was a whore…  …and now she was telling me that love was a hypocrisy.

I wanted to knock everything off the table.  I wanted to tear the room apart; I wanted to abuse her.

The nausea grew stronger.  The room seemed out of proportion somehow.  Sailor’s head looked tiny and distant.  I felt panicked.  I wanted to grab her and take her into the bedroom, and resolve things a different way.  I wanted to babble out my rage in an avalanche of screams.

I did nothing.  I sat upright and waited.  This had to come out.

(A Back Door: Enter “Motionless” or “Dark as an Illusion” into the search  bar.  A Front Door:  Enter “Exquisite Stillness” or “Stockings” into the search bar.)


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