I suppose that the coat of skins, when first devised, was the cause of such envy that he who first wore it met his death in ambush; and yet after all the pelt was torn in the struggle and completely ruined with much blood so that it could not be made of any use.
“So, her secret. What’s her secret? She shapes you so special, like you’re the answer, the only one who could ever know it, who could hold it in the chest of the self. The only self that mattered, the self she cuts you into. I say yes tell me, I come closer, I feel her warmth on me: The endless sea of mouth, the lining of the lip which shapes her a physical self despite the woodenishness you could not detect unless it warped you, which it would, if you were near enough.”
Lisa Marie Basile | Nympholepsy