Oh, but you do scream so well. I try to avoid concerning myself with the visceral details of my work - the pulpy feeling of organs, the scent of blood is satisfying, but ought not to be distracting - yet with you.
As always, you are quite perfect. Rending you apart, I can almost forget myself. The table fades. The walls turn grey
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Or, to be more specific, loving something defective. He is only a fragment of what a normal human being ought to be; no doubt, with your time together, you have become aware of this.
I suppose, if one were feeling whimsical, one might suggest he is only half of a Self. A partial soul. A weak shadow.
Like pieces of a jigsaw, he is riddled with holes, and one cannot fill them with just anything.
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... I suppose it is pleasing enough to qualify.
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