ILA

When you no longer have any skin to pick from your fingers, All there is, is a wound. And you keep pushing against it with your chewed fingertips. Sometimes it bleeds. Your rings are bloody and it pulsates with pain. Your nightstand is stained, your lightswitch is dirty. The letters on your keyboard can no longer be read. Soon it covers every surface, obscuring the use. All is one hurt.

Liquor store. She steps out of it.
Then she is walking down the street in high heels, stumbling a bit, bread in hand.
A seagull attacks her, wings obscuring the annoyed expression of the woman.
Struggle.
She pulls out a revolver and shoots the bird between the eyes.
Seagull corpse on the pavement.
She leans over the corpse, long fingers dragging across the cooling body (human).
Nails dragging on skin, leaving marks on the dying flesh.
She scratches the chest, slowly removing skin until reaching the arteries.
To cut the blue or the red artery? She is sweating and cuts the red artery.
The body explodes

The meeting of the suit and the mole

The suit is walking around somewhere. He is looking for something, pressing his fingers into cracks in the walls, pipes, hands into bushes. His phone is open, providing him with coordinates. The suit notices a little flower growing out of the pavement and decides to go closer. He leans down to it and touches the petals. His finger is bleeding. Then everything goes white. Someone is dragging the suit. Then tying him to a chair in a decrepit looking abandoned tunnel. The tunnel is filled with patchwork fabrics and textiles, covering the grey concrete. There's a table with a sewing machine (maybe just a sewing kit), where sits the mole. They stitch together the fabrics with red thread. The suit opens his eyes and grunts through the homemade gag at the mole, pulling against the rope. The mole turns their head, curiously gazing at the suit. They stand up and move closer. Drag from a cigarette, the mole pulls on the suit's tie and ashes it onto the fabric. Then the mole takes away the gag and pushes the suit's lips apart, looking at his teeth. They seem surprised at the sight of perfect white molars. They take a rock out of their pocket and place it on the suit's tongue. The suit swallows it. Water drips from the ceiling. Silence. Then the suit starts coughing violently and spits out a bunch of milk. It flies onto the fabrics. In the pile of milk, there is an egg. The mole sprinkles flour onto the floor and everything forms into a pancake.

Anna will live through the rapture of her being. Shes unaware where life will take her, but is more open to it than she thinks. Shes on the verge, a balancing act of the being society expects her to be and who she really is. She loves people from a distance, careful of potential chaos.

The mole cares for pleasure and pleasure only. At the end of a wine bottle, a line of speed, at the end of the line of speed, a shot of vodka. They surf forums on fetish porn so niche, it hasnt been invented yet. How could it be considered abuse when they do it with such a love!

The suit appeared one day behind Szolnok bus station, covered in birdshit and with a dusty old suitcase. He has a hunger unsatiated by all else in the world. His feet drag in shoes two sizes too big for him. His eyes are sunken, his teeth yellow. He keeps his meals in the suitcase.