He paid for every orgasm, every touch of her breast, her
matted fur, with every shaft of forgetting recalled in obsessive strokes of
his brush, layers of wet ocher, taupe, and true black. No sense thinking in dollars.
He paid in the old-fashioned exchange of experience, never equivalent, concerned,
crazed by the i'mbalance, the unaccountable space as framed by two truly
appearing, one fleshed in, the canvass a bill to be paid, never enough, such is
their beauty, the musk one imagines within the remains, the truth that, at best,
the image, she, must be, become something more, less.
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