Photographic

I was never much for such activities, mostly they bored me but largely they seemed alien. No touch of the hand, no bristle of hairs on the back of my neck could arouse much of anything in my mind. I relent to the photographic, a forced smile captured in a frame of time I disconnect from.
When you are satisfied, you leave me to make coffee and wash your brushes. You leave me to wonder if I ever want to do it, to submit to the photographic – to the realism you surround yourself with. I do not.

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