my  my tongue against t blue eye, a taste of salt. Pollen. I carried t taste to ongue against te across ed time I let teet, tongue o pull it for  too late. I leaned forongue carried to ongue. e touchis way once.

    Notook a breat for tongue tc.

    terrible snarl, violent and intimate, came out of ricity. Sion against ted ure ered  leapt and fell against me. to be less and less lig.

    I knoaug told about a beautiful temptress c to present to you.   animal o o ry—ed it and turned it into a place of war?

    It is important to die in  s of t. So Madox o a c, a place   its ted w .

    urned  pigment. ones and ligo make ernal. t sacred colour. Only ted, no signature of lake, no dark cluster of mountain as tibesti, no lime-green fan he edge of Africa.

    And all tribes, tone of t and saal box or bone can become loved and turn eternal in a prayer. Sucry sers no of. e die containing a ricribes, tastes rees, fears ure, not just to label ourselves on a map like tories, communal books. e are not oaste or experience. All I desired o walk upon suc had no maps.

    I carried Katon into t, he palace of winds.

    Almasy’s face fell to t, staring at nothing—Caravag-gio’s knees perhaps.

    “Do you  some morp you something.”