[Stop it. The shapes of the thought like the edge of a blunted knife sawing away at something tender. All the sinew shreds, viciously slow, and it aches and it takes until the pain becomes something both numb and too tender. He can taste it in his mouth - a slicker copper tang on his tongue and a feverish sweat at the back of his neck; can she? Does she feel it?
Of course she does. It buzzes. It burns. It smells like ozone in the summer over a jet dark sea.]
no subject
Of course she does. It buzzes. It burns. It smells like ozone in the summer over a jet dark sea.]