His fingers were soft, his lips delicate.
For now though, there was a hitch in my gate, a stutter in my stride. I moved like a broken automaton, a machine aware of the hows of survival but unaware of the whys of survival. I pulled my lips back from my teeth, licked my lips, and repeated that motion five times to loosen up the muscles that allow such an facial expression.
There is a crease in my sleeve... what does it prophecy?
Who said that only animals are animated?
The world will forget these children.
...there is the conversation...given in the language of chemical exchanges...
But there in the dark of a BBC recording was only a young man's madness.
It was the result of a brokenness in his body.
He would sit there, with his tight frown, his pent-up bowels, his shoulders narrow again like a boy’s, his paper-thin skin shaking and he’d wait.