Do you realize how you and I are oddly alone right now? It is like a mother
and unborn child. I know we shall probably never meet--yet you are surrounded
by my voice. Do you want to hear it? It is a smooth woman's voice, hesitant,
velvet, receding into darkness, a black honey dripping in a thin thread,
smearing into smut and excrement, buried in miles and miles of violet saffron
flowers, fingers smeared with the orange pollen, two breast nubs brushing
against the grass.
But I am a man at times, to myself--so imagine lips that are wider, thicker,
excreting an oil, an amber. A man's voice spiraling, rising, heard first
at your left ear and then your right.
A long flat tongue sliding out, sensing, testing the weather. The softer
you speak, the closer people come to you; whisper and people strain to listen.
I learned this when I was a cold caller.
Place your ear on this page. Only this sheet of paper separates us; the
rustling of paper against skin. Take a razor and cut slits down the sheet:
you now have a grill covering your face.
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