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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