existential grissle
Boris, it is the blood, sweat and cum from the brothel that bothers the peace in your nostrils. Soak this cloth in warm soapy water and lay it across your face if you really want to breath again in this tragedy of this human theatre in all of its shades and shapes. The prostituted bodies are burning, but the wind carries the smoke away from my breathing holes. There is time and light enough to air my soiled underpants.