Shirts and jeans litter the asphalt, the empty fabric limbs askew as if they're attempting to escape. Blood smears Sarah's lips as she struggles against the chest of a dirty looking man with a beard. Terror. Terror is the only word my mind can seize on and it forgets what it means. I forget how to think - to move.
Perhaps our imagination needs crime stories to fulfill some craving we have, as a way to assuage a darkness in ourselves.
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Perhaps our imagination needs crime stories to fulfill some craving we have, as a way to assuage a darkness in ourselves.
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