specks

are you writing piranha says he in his deep voice. almost guttural, really, and gay.
i don't know, i swallow down superfluous spit and saliva and count the silk threads in my night gown. reality is stranger than fiction. it really is.
later she sits on my little 10 buck carpet from the former GDR and noisily sips something from a large white tea cup in her hands. i am surprised at the fact that it doesn't annoy me. a short moment i stagger and think of craft. people who craft pottery and words. she stretches her legs and smiles. really nice people she says and i can hear in her voice that she is impressed.
he will go about his evening. it could be a peaceful, fun, undramatic evening. other people will be dying in snowstorms. others will be making love.
and my friend's man is dying.
dying more often. every time again when another doctor robs him of a hope which another person instilled inside of him.
dying thereof.