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Thursday, February 17, 2005
I hate this. It's crap.
Passionate hot breath upon each other's faces, this is that "thing" we call our lives. Each one of us runs the thought through our head as if it were everything, and we wish for it. With time, it may come; or it may not.
They speak softly to one another, they are close to one another. The bed has a checker pattern, white and black, white and black. The pillow is as elegant as it is large. She rests her head upon it, as does he alongside her.
There is a window near them, the pink curtains drawn aside. The night peeks its eyes through it, starry and probing. Down the stories of the building some cars whirr by, their lights glowing in darkness.
Full and ripe, the moon is a large cratered face.
He begins softly kissing her cheek, he strokes her hair with the other hand. Outside crickets start their rythmic noise.
She takes off her shirt. Her black bra holds her perky, young breasts and hides them away. He takes off his shirt, revealing hairy iron and steel.
Her bra is taken off. He touches her assets gropingly, she touches his powerful, cruel body.
Soon the bed is heard ricketing on its springs, going to and fro. But then, "Cut!" is screamed, and they stop, lying there naked and aroused.
The cameras glare upon them, the director sits in his chair, with his hat, and eyes them carefully. The lenses of the cameras stare back dully. "Ya need ta slow down," he says. "And ya can have more foreplay dan that."
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