Counting her demure little toes or something, taking a sort of inventory of her life, or something, a Mariska Hartigay who had just went into emotional winter after a harsh summer.
There was Kevin, and Peter Chase, and that old familiar-that old Cincinatus-that one and only Uncle Royce Bingo, plopping sputtering and generally the fizzle of the thing, precipitate of the life of process, as much as sweat or ejaculate or other things that perhaps adjust the human condition from a state of weariness into a state of protracted ease.
"Slippin' away....
sittin' on a pillow....
waitin' for night to fall...."
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