The Saint of Sick Men
Let them forget your dick.
It looks like seaweed tangled in the grooves of fishnet tights. Old salt. The ghosts of freighters skimming the ocean tides. A carousel in the middle of the square hasn't turned in years. It's horses ice-frozen mid-rear. Their chipped porcelain eyes bulged with some kind of forgotten pleasure. Or terror. I don't know which. I can't tell. Ne…
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