The dim blue hue of a computer screen,
Masks the oily blackness of the window it opens.
A man thrusting his hips into a woman’s most private place,
But without the tenderness of a lover.
They are merely two ghostly, hollowed out forms that dance in the twilight of a red-eyed camera.
What happened to the dreams of the little girl within?
At her soccer games or dance recitals, was this always to be the same godless outcome?
A deterministic nightmare from the mind of a depraved Calvinist bastard.
Can’t she be saved?
Not by me, for I am weak.
For the love of gold she did it, and for the love of lust I watch it.This is business… and I am a customer.