Trite Nights

Much waste stems from unspoken minds. The bleak silhouette of bodies against the moon, and stars, and distant villages, of older times... is echoed in the cold darkness of phonelit rooms, tiny lehds on devices made in factories full of fright. Straightened hair falls against the light, and a stern moan breaks overbearing silence. The smoothness of skin against dry skin, not yet fatigued. Shadows barely visible, as the lights are weak: a nipple here, an arched back, knees to nowhere, there a shoulder. Nothing shocking, forever trite, the slaves are busy through the night.

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