Branches etch messages in the window panes.

I stare out at the asylums chewing on the victims.

A man has a web server where his heart should be.

A woman saunters past, laminated, glossy, unremarkable and perfect.

and he does not glance up.

His hands are writing a wiki of the world.

His eyes already own hordes of long, tan legs,

trunks of breasts that stand as zeniths of desire.

He has entire folders of ass.

The woman struts smiling.

There will be another man she can pass,

being made only to turn necks and catch eyes.

There has to be.

She cannot plan for another possibility.

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