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I knew this section needed to go yesterday, but spent thirty-six hours in denial because I'm stubborn, and because there is a part of me--probably my ego--that insists every word I write has its raison de etre. But I finally conceded defeat and tossed them to the pile. But not entirely, because I am a verbal hoarder and secretly convinced that if I throw words out, I will inevitably come to need them later.
So here they are. Just in case.
He'd opened his eyes to the pebbled blankness of his ceiling and the humped shadows of his bedroom, stiff-limbed and sheathed in sweat, His prick had been high and tight against his belly, heavy and urgent against the bedsheets, and his mouth had been bitter with nicotine and adrenaline. He'd stared at the ceiling in logy befuddlement until his pounding heart had slowed inside his chest, and then he'd swung his feet out of bed and opened the bedside nighstand in search of his cigarettes. He'd groped for their familiar shape amid the jumble of old pens and notepads and the tacky, sloughed skin of old Post-It notes, and when he'd found them beneath an ancient Tag Heuer that had ticked its last the year Reise Reise had hit the shelves, he'd tapped one into his palm and jabbed it into his mouth. He'd lit it with the lighter he kept beside the lamp, and after the first drag had settled into his lungs, he'd slipped from the bed and padded to the window. He'd breathed smoke against the cool window and watched the night steep. His breath had fogged the glass, and the world without it had run like a ruined watercolor, smeared and bleary and indistinct.
But his pitiless witch and her crimson cowl had been clear and crisp. They hadn't faded as most dreams did, but sharpened and deepened and inspired a warm, throbbing ache in his chest and cock, a dizzying, listless hunger that not even the cigarette could satisfy. He'd seen their reflection in the breath-smudged glass
So here they are. Just in case.
He'd opened his eyes to the pebbled blankness of his ceiling and the humped shadows of his bedroom, stiff-limbed and sheathed in sweat, His prick had been high and tight against his belly, heavy and urgent against the bedsheets, and his mouth had been bitter with nicotine and adrenaline. He'd stared at the ceiling in logy befuddlement until his pounding heart had slowed inside his chest, and then he'd swung his feet out of bed and opened the bedside nighstand in search of his cigarettes. He'd groped for their familiar shape amid the jumble of old pens and notepads and the tacky, sloughed skin of old Post-It notes, and when he'd found them beneath an ancient Tag Heuer that had ticked its last the year Reise Reise had hit the shelves, he'd tapped one into his palm and jabbed it into his mouth. He'd lit it with the lighter he kept beside the lamp, and after the first drag had settled into his lungs, he'd slipped from the bed and padded to the window. He'd breathed smoke against the cool window and watched the night steep. His breath had fogged the glass, and the world without it had run like a ruined watercolor, smeared and bleary and indistinct.
But his pitiless witch and her crimson cowl had been clear and crisp. They hadn't faded as most dreams did, but sharpened and deepened and inspired a warm, throbbing ache in his chest and cock, a dizzying, listless hunger that not even the cigarette could satisfy. He'd seen their reflection in the breath-smudged glass
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