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The religious microbiologist

Raise the hands, they can be stretched forever. This is a room with no ceiling. This is a monastery. She lives here alone. She wakes up before the alarm sets off, or the coma is unstoppable. She eats. She eats. She eats, all these denatured substances fill the void. She keeps her maker calm. Him and the rest are too kind to ask or take the lead. She brings them in. They soften with formic acid. Once they are soft, the muscles lax, the skin tears at the touch of the air. Nothing makes them easier. They fuck and confess their eternal vows. They are easy. It only takes a drop to dissolve their sham of pride. An offender is never asked, conviction to a never-ending lack of manners. Then they invite her over. Unclean sheets, unclean pillows, unclean people sleeping on insecurity. They fuck and their sweat is grime. Then she returns and prays. They get their diagnosis in no time and they cope to keep it hidden. This is a room with no floor. There is nothing dirt has ever kissed here. She burns everything on the two edges of each interval. Burn everything, rebuild everything, bear everything. Raise the hands, now he sees clearly the documentation of our eighteen months. Here, a grain of pepper on his tongue. Please, disappear. For a second she clasps his hand with the madness of every elementary point without him. This will never stop, this has not ended years now. This is a serious mistake and will cost her slide out of the coma every morning. He thought she forgets, she burns herself. She never touches herself, she never destroys herself. Whatever viruses he left here, will remain. This makes him ache more. They fuck and he weeps on her chest. She says he should see his savior. Deeper knowledge, thorough touch and thorough listen. The savior holds the cure. She drains them and pushes them to the saviors. She fucks because he's easy. She beats his back and he stares with agony. He stays because she's unfamiliar. We fuck and raise our hands. We reach god. Do not expect to leave her with anything new in your pockets but a referral to your next savior.

We are taught to be the void. It is written on our diplomas.