Wither me, and I shall crumble; weather me, and I shall become as dust. In complaint I crease my brows, letting droop the corners of my mouth; in my longing I cannot rest, but pace, fidget my fingers against my face that is dark with desire. This is not a need for something I could dig for - this is not a need at all, only... I would like to taste that bitterness again, and must not. There are only ever two choices, only two ways for decision. And I will taste that bitterness again. Remember - this sponge, waved unsteadily before my face, is not only a receptacle for pain. It has felt its own agonies; was living, is dried and long dead, red with the wine it's soaked in. I can avert my eyes, but only for so long; I'll lean forward, and afterwards I'll claim that I was pushed. I said I thirst. Deny me.
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