Ficly

Not a story

the room was cramped, slightly bent upon itself

elbows met elbows, as the sunken lighting cast grace on sweated flesh

the mess of features formed the geometry of succession.

onward, forever, at any cost, the singular prose of the gathered mass.

the tally is incalculable in the company of so fit a group of beings.

nature has only since expressed such adoration, by the looks of you.

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