Everything seems somehow more perfect in the dark. I have mentioned it to Martin: shapes that let themselves be known by ineffable twilight are ever more appealing than those under a midday sun; why should not the curve continue into infinity under the canopy of an untainted night?

Our lips touch – the feeling is crisp, unassuming – the way he brings our two bodies to a point is galvanizing. I wrap my arms around his invisible shoulders and we are pulled, as if by some weightless hand reaching through the darkness, onto our bed. It seems so effortless – there is no room now in our heads for our old curses and resentments; our souls are extinguished like the streetlights outside, and our bodies suffused with that familiar excitement of youth; oh, the irony of it!

The siren screams on, but we cannot hear – we can only feel each other; we are all that is left in the world. The planes swoop overhead. They are narrowing, coming closer, roaring over even the siren; but our Love is impenetrable to such crude sensations. In this moment, this intangible, perfect moment, I do not fear death. It is as good a time as any.


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