What transpires in the privacy of this dark room, I care not say or even who exactly inspires it, the stroke after stroke, the vision of a picture already years out of date, stoked up like a campfire to ward off the dread of night, her face, her lips, the curves of her chest, or hips, stroke after stroke, in the privacy to this dark room, pumped up until it overflows, the fantasy of what I imagine rather than what really is, stroke after stroke, in the privacy of this dark room, invisible even to her, who cannot possibly know what she has inspired, stroke after stroke, in the privacy of this dark room, her face, her lips, her hips, inspiring it all, night after endless night
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