I only wanted a capful of your
muck. The funk of it keeps me
wound for days. Woo’d as I was
in Borup, yet a pimple of a bump
kin, a plebe for life; a lifer. I mean
it, this drivel campaign. It’s not a
thing that scars, like a dimple on the
rarest of souls. Only the musk of its
shadow and your pink essay appliqué.
