Past prologue

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Dedicated to the young in whose spirit the search for truth marches on
arse of a film. the end.
hiccup. burp. wander on. wondering, time for action. slumps back in seat. zero motivation. at most a yoga-like sloth manoeuvre lowering to the floor. a carpet over wood formica. reliably laid over concrete. direct on the sodden earth, all around. in every direction but one. there lay the bowel pit. the loathsome rank, somehow sweet pit of wallow. the gastric tank. the end of the line. the dirty water refuse.

Slump back. enough said. the rest belonged to might, upright spreading stomach, bold shedding forward. the rotund aches into existence like the pregnant woman. so right. so gradually pushed outwards. an aching seed out through hips and lips. painfully, slowly. I forget you not.

Tired finger dance. the pleasure of push. awakening slow, to give. sniffling and sighing. the crude is gone with a scratch of the ear.

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