Every day there is only the mud and the mist and the mild. The constant light drizzle. The complete absence of the hard cold to make the ground a tundra, even if for a little while.
So when we dance, we do a mud dance. And when I punch face, it’s a face-punch of mud.
And it never looks like I’m dirty until The Bald Man takes a white towel and runs it over my body and turns the entire thing brown, and we like to pretend that it’s like my coat is coming off. Like it’s not colorfast.
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