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The crippled makeup seems to run from her face, now devoid of any specific function. Now it only serves to create a more disheartening effect as I tell her, ĎItís going to be ok.í But itís not. I know this, she certainly knows this, but still I am almost forced into allowing these words from my lips. Itís as if all of my emotions, all of the pain and censorship of words Iíve forced my self into swallowing has suddenly become too much. The liquid emotion and pain has forced my cheeks into their balloon-like state, but this last insult is too much, and a little of what I feel has dribbled out into space.

ĎHmmmí, my mind muses over the current affairs of my nation. Her sweet lips, so red and tender, now beckon me towards them. But in a moment of civilised strength I avoid the obvious move, and make for her head, so as to avoid the awkwardness in a few days, that is sure to come.

So my instinct is overridden by possibles and what ifs that night, and my mind seems to swell into a difficult position, so that no matter where I lay my head I cannot get comfortable. But the dreams, as ever, come unexpectedly, so there is no way that I can tell the difference between the way I am and the way I wish. The alcohol doesnít help. I toss and turn, remembering and reliving the blurred night that has passed.

Blood, tears, fists, rage, all of these things seem to flood back to me with a disorientation and fear. I can feel the alcohol writhing in my stomach, like some starving beast, it claws at my insides, looking for escape, looking for something to satisfy its hunger.


Remember my friend, despite all you are, all we are, the universe will tick on, long past our departure.

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The following comments are for "The Reader"
by Thea Veol

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