How does it feel, the
solitude? Few days with me - and you cannot recall! But I cannot
remember how it feels to be together. I cannot waive my loneliness, my
staunch companion. When I am with you, it prospers. And you must pay
for that.
I have no choice but to abscond with your possessions, lest I remain
bereft. With utmost ethics, I keep you well-informed of these dynamics
and you acknowledge my fragility which makes you desirous to salve my
wounds.
But I maintain the benefit of your surprise, the flowing motion. Always
at an advantage over you, the interchangeable. I, on the other hand,
cannot be replaced, as far as you're concerned. You are a loyal subject
of your psychic state while I am a denizen of the eternal hunting
grounds. No limits there, nor boundaries, only the nostrils quivering
at the game, the surging musculature, the body fluids, the scent of
decadence.
Sometime, the prey becomes the predator, but only for a while.
Admittedly, it's possible and you might turn the tables. But you don't
want to. You crave so to be hunted. The orgiastic moment of my
proverbial bullets penetrating willing flesh, the rape, the violation,
the metaphoric blood and love, you are no longer satisfied with
compromises.
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