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It has been seven-thousand days in his wilderness. It has been one great, immense day,
stretching to all things, to no things, stretching simply because it can; because she bears
the name of Judgement, and yet refuses to make herself known, despite his call, despite his patience, despite.
Spite and spit. She once spat in his mouth, said, ''This is my libation to you: profane absurdity.''
He had cracked in laughter, shoulders shaking. It died in him, however, when she wet his cock
with her tongue and he bit his cheek all the while, until his mouth acidulated with the rust of blood
and his fist knotted in her hair, thirsting.
''And what is this you offer me?'' she had asked, amused, his seed trickling down her chin, between
her breasts.
''Apprehension,'' he said, quiet, shame gathering in all corners of the room, which she left, like a thought interrupted by its own stasis.
In those first embalmed moments of morning, shot through with dark,
she is leaving. Her leaving is eternal.
Seven-thousand-and-one.