London

The tuned house sounds a melody of dissidence and unmet expectations. His hungry hands found new love under his desk, and she just happened to visit. Insomnia creeps over his eyelids like headlights. His skin smells of sweat and passion. She knows, she knows everything. She doesn’t speak. She walks away. He ducks back underneath his secretary slut.

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2 comments so far

  1. Skittles on

    Was he Bill Clinton? 😛

  2. noahthegreat on

    I should ask him, if he lights pot but doesn’t inhale.


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