What the bloody hell are you, Ms. Lane?
What the bloody hell are you, Ms. Lane?
Names are illusions,ö he growled. ôNonsensical labels seized upon by people to make them feel better about the intangibility of their puny existences. I am this. I am that,ö he mocked. ôI came from so and so. Ergo I am à whatever the blah-blah you want to claim. Bloody hell, spare me.
As he fills me, I wonder ifùin the same way that sex makes its own unique perfumeùwe donÆt really ômakeö love. As in create, manufacture, evoke an independent element in the air around us, and if enough of us did it really well, for real, not just for the hell of it, we could change the world. Because when heÆs in me, I feel the space around us changing, charging, and it seems to set off some kind of feedback loop, where the more he touches me, the more I need him to.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories