A broken, penguin shaped, bald, middle-aged man (imagine a cut-price Danny De Vito, minus the comedy stylings and with a moustache) sits in his squad car and calls his partner over the radio. "The baby has leukemia" he chokes, "my legs are gone". "Fortunate son" I think, "for he's too young to know and soon he'll be dead. While the man will still be penguin shaped, bald and eventually old to boot and perhaps his legs will never recover".
She's blonde with emerald grey eyes and when she does squat thrusts the hydraulic force generate by the hardening cocks around her could elevate all the iron in the gym in the time it takes the blood to rush from our brains to our crotches. There's a fragile facade masquerading as a shield wall that layers her and if it crumbles you'll find the dessicated husk of something that could recognize true beauty and hence couldn't be allowed to live.
[sometimes I think she would be best viewed on the page of a collector's book with a pin through her back, holding her in place.]
He gazes around the library. The people here bore him and the ghostly fragments he summons from the small screen and his mind, those captured moments of still, just living, life, will make for tear stains of greater beauty when he buries his face in the pillows and beats himself to sleep. In the meantime, he starts to colour his fingernails with a red pen and wishes that you could put more than 150lb on the machine to do the seated row, 'cause it's getting boring at the gym.
I want to wrap my infinite, oceanic blackness around them and let the voices in my head serenade them while they learn to welcome the reassuring numbness that will slowly make them less than human.
