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  • Writer's pictureJames Kidac

The voice

I heard her voice, familiar yet distant, but sin was holding me like bosom to a baby, keeping me safe from all that gargle. Pathetic boy, what a sham to drift on! It was just a few drinks, and yet the wandering and hallucinations were endless. If it would all end in a drunken stupor, that would be such a shame. But that was reality, even with the care of a million hearts. The conjurer's trick was to deluge your own concerns in shiraz for the loves. Her voice wasn't one of despair, it was one of indulgence. She had found her audience, as did I, watching over her songs and dance. She recognised me from afar, where I was seated, and she smiled as I watched. It could easily have been years apart since the first time our eyes met, but that was the game. You play it fast when you are dead.

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