Dear B,
Bells or some unremembered cajoling from priests brings me to this moment. Alone. I have little to say about the sex. It abuses one to hunt with vocals sundered or embraced. It cornered me, amid the television reflecting in the other room, and then something crouched on me, or I touched myself, I can't recall. But there was a business, a focal point, at which I didn't want to know what she looked like, what her red neck spots offered.
I recant. I was not cornered. I was wanting to be cornered. So that I could leave. Unedited.
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