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Pale beauty.

I love when a woman strains at her clothes.

Sometimes, what’s on my mind just isn’t hot.

I’ve been struggling with things that should be simple.

I’ve said it before: mouths matter.

I watch a man improbably pick up a woman on the train, and am consumed by envy and rage.

The shortest post I’ve written, and maybe the most honest.

A thirteen-year-old boy, a Hungarian village girl, and everything I’ve ever failed to do with women, written in dust.