psychobabble of a delirious fuck

it’s one of those rare days when one of the gods residing from the posters plastered at your bedroom walls come down to your bed- like really close to your bed and then gave you the permission to fuck them. who doesn’t want to fuck a god right? and you did. or so you thought you did. i mean, if you think about it, who really does fuck a god? in any case, that is a poster god. your poster god. and your poster god will remain distant inside the torn corners of the olympus that you created across your whitewashed walls.

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