This sort of thing could be sent to any girl whatsoever on the site. I’m talking about the guys who have at least attempted to cover their tracks.

I saw a beggar outside of The Vatican once, a woman so bowed and stooped and hunched, her hand a claw of tanned hide now, permanently cupped and waiting for too little to be given too late.

She looked up at me like she was casting a pox or curse and I was amazed, the beauty buried in her face, all the days that must’ve marched over her.

We never think of it, do we, the way time marches on, the wreckage of how it has its way with us?

The heart, or the valves, or whatever it was that they transplanted that came from a pig, seemed like it would take, her doctors were saying.

She was living, breathing, walking around on the scene and trying not to smoke or drink, calling me a couple times a week back then because I had stopped drinking around then.