She asks no questions, tells no lie or truth about herself. Her life is a story which can frequently change gears, ruthlessly skip certain episodes, jump across months and years, and even double back on itself. You try to write yourself between the missing lines. The gaps are infectious, they can leach up into your own life causing cracks, signs of decay, load it with doubts and fears that its own coherence is sometimes lacking. With her nothing is clearly said, even less agreed. She sheds her clothes like the compliments she never seemed to like or need. Her body is a quick movement, a sleight of hand. The beauty of her long waist and the white oyster breasts, once freed, appear as the reverse of something she prefers to hide, as if she has just pressed herself inside-out like a glove. Sex is her political need. Desire is mere intention, love is the only true revolutionary deed which can overthrow states, tear up all creeds circumnavigate hatreds and reach our real constitution written on the shroud of flesh in the heat and shine of blood. Eyes clenched, spine arched up and shuddering, fingers twining with the sheet, she reads it aloud like a prayer.Birth sign: Libra
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