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I swim, but I do not see. The water is thick with turbidity: fibers of fish scales, the forgotten breath of deforested sea weed. A snorkel leads from my puckered lips and broaches the thin surface above me. The snorkel is my division, because I am not as decisive as I might hope. I cannot fully detach myself from one world for another.
Ever wanted to bang a cartoon character? It’s OK—there’s no shame in it. We’ve all fantasized from time-to-time about some expertly penned hands expertly penning us. There’s a sense of mystery entirely devoid from human crushes—the sort that makes you wonder exactly what is it that would confront you should you find yourself pulling Aladdin’s pants off (with your teeth, you dirty thing!) or unhooking Ariel’s clam bra.