He was all lines of latitutde and longitude; a wasteland of humid shadows where primeval mists rose and fell bearing with it a scent of an unrealized history. All the lines seemed to be racing to some lethargically constructed equator made of imaginary silences and forced pauses of refracted fear in an absence of light; a complete and inner coldness that he could never shake, but that was not the whole of it. He was her beloved country; covered with the scars of a lifetime of wars and reoccuring battles in which only the characters changed, but the carnage did not and neither did the wounds. They were always deep and never fully healed; deep gashes of constant reconciliation gone awry. Never making a beginning out of an ending, only wounding and rewounding deeper and deeper until not even the abyss it was always becoming couldn't acknowledge its own true, outer edge; complete and utter depth where the cold traveled so quickly and so diligently that it exploded into quick flickerings of white heat.
She traced the lines back and forth, pressing deeply into the melanomal landscapes searching for where they began and wondering why they led to so many pockets of sorrow, but all the while he talked both with his mouth and his entire body; awkward rhythms as if his body were trying to divorce itself and its ability for movement from its joints and tissues.....
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