He chewed a bit harder on his pencil, suddenly lost in the heat of his most recent memories of her. The smell of sweat, those terrible motel sheets, her soft dark skin.
After they finished killing God, they turned to the planet and then finally upon themselves. Turning from all that they were, they receded into a new violent ignorance. They no longer outshone the heavens. The fire faded. They froze to death.
They help me write and by the time I’m done a project I usually have a fully painted mini.