icons of destruction

“I don’t know what I want, medicine ’ Tiffany said, “but I’ll know when I find it.” She was a paragon of logic. She scanned the art book “Bitch’s Life” slowly. She especially liked the work of Tsutomu Nihei.

“I feel like I need constant attention,” she pulled her hair, “and then when I get it, I don’t care about it. Fuck this life.”

“Make the things you want to see in the world,” the machine told her. “You have the choice to be happy or sad. You are what you make yourself.”

It had chocolate eyes, statuesque face, cold steel. Its fingers were long and skinny. The length of the ring finger in relation to the index finger tells how much testosterone one produces.

Murderland was on again. The contestants were in a castle that looked like Neuschwanstein. “I remember you,” she spoke, wistfully. The image of Ludvig hovered above her.

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