She chirps as I approach in answer to the plastic pendant in my hand. Deep, rich red. Demure. There's hardly an inch between the bottom of her skirt and the black bitumen beneath. I could turn her over now, but I don't. I'd rather take my time. And she growls so nicely when I'm inside
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I've been wanting to write something about a fast, red car since I got the music. I've got nothing else to do here today but sit. I figured I may as well.
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