We want to hurt you.
A fistful of cloth and skin between teeth, and the way the eyes go red when the planks start pounding. Long-burning fires and a shine on the oil slicks. Broken stroller-glass and murder scenes, and rust-old nails driven into the wood from an extinct tree.
We share your pain.
Fog and fountains. Worn folds on old letters and peels of wallpaper. Pressed flowers in tossed-out books. Pipes and bathtubs, cries with no audience, no funerals, and the houses that go empty too long for repairs to be made.
We demand your joy.
Hot steam, a blush, pink-slick dancefloors, bucket grease fingers that clutch slot-machine crank and a hand reaching down. Sweet meats and fever dreams, more and more and more. Rolling on the ground in all the animal blood and loving it.
We do not care.
The hologram copy of the model and the fake, and the gloved hand that builds the countdown clock. Radio noise that cuts through the signal and the regimented decay. The video screens, black hallways, and how it can all go away in the blink of an eye.
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