Our body is like a plate, leaving an impression on the sheets, wrinkling pillows and changing, shifting, creating a print. The plate is not static, stagnant, still. It tosses and turns in the night. The print becomes a series. The series is continual, cyclical, exhausting, exhilarating, sexual, isolated. This is my bed, your bed. This is our bed. Stare above and see what I cannot feel and what you might not see. Create an impression. A bed is not a lover. A trap is not a fever.

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