Soaked and poked with the tar prod, you conjure a sensation of shriveled lust. How glorious were the slappy twistings and livid palpitations of your years in service. Diagonal shadows on the tiles, wheezing whispers from under the door.
You are chapped here, stepping gingerly between the cardboard-shaped plant stumps in the courtyard. You think you can hear the rustle grind of bean parasites, but it may only be the ceiling fan.