An infrequent visitor to the site.
LINEN For two weeks now in this rented room we’ve sweated together, our every move only serving to fan the flames as they died, two fish out of water, panting and fevered, desperate for what little air the shuttered windows allow. I dream of what’s to come: two linen sheets we’ve put aside to make a bed, one as crisp as any service we might have paid for, two cool linen sheets for us to unfold, snap into place, a bed for us to lie in and to dream in, that new correctness against the skin, like a field of stubble crossed against the grain when the sun is shrouded in surmise. Two white linen sheets as cold as autumn.
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