Minotaur by Thea Curtis
The Labyrinth of own mortality lurks.
Welcomes you.
Ecstatic move your eyelids as deeper you stagger through the corridors.
Your lashes all wet — it's late, late in time, late for you.
The Asexual frolicking bodies inside Love kill and die. In you.
Ariadne will not come. Never.
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