Conversations with an epileptic.

Her breast rose accordingly an accordion under the pressure of coarse fingertips of course, fingertips have pressed sweetly into her soft skin searching and misinformed veterans tracing aged grenades the instrument bowed upward ribs ribbed in vibration expanding red contracting black her breath swaying in and out accordingly sharp gasps disguised as music can cut through callous by softly wheezing of course her fingers stood stiff wrapped by hands who chose to twitch Even as the last note contracts she allows her hurt to hum accordingly.