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A/N: Something from my writing journal… it’s metaphorical.

Story and characters are © Greg Martin

I smiled. For no reason. I smiled. I had no reason to smile. I was alone. My only company was myself and the pool before me.

The crimson pool was amazing. Such a color was of my own body, of my soul. The color drew me in, drew me to touch it.

I touched it. Such a miracle, this before me. Given to me by sweet pain, it was glorious, such a sweet red, gorgeous to the touch.

I raised my finger to my eyes. Before my face, I watched the crimson miracle slide down my finger, towards the wounds of it’s maker.

My hand moved back to the pool, and it was warm to my palm’s touch. I smiled boardy as it stained my hand with it’s crimson Godliness.

“Sweet Jesus,” I murmured, grasping the elastic of my boxers. I had to know. A crimson hand was the perfect tool, the perfect tool to bring me to Nirvana.

A final yell brought to me the essence of my being, tainted pink the crimson God. My sweet God, my sweet pleasure, it was why I smiled. Again.

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