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not_thyne [userpic]
Chapter One ~ These Days
by not_thyne (not_thyne)
at September 23rd, 2006 (02:45 am)
Tags: ,

feeling: tired and lonely
today's soundtrack: These Days - Jackson Browne

These Days

I had a lover
It's so hard to risk another these days

Now if I seem to be afraid
To live the life I have made in song
Well it's just that I've been losing so long

I'll keep on moving
Things are bound to be improving these days
One of these days...


Ask any marathoner: it’s not the run that’s lonely – it’s the rampaging case of the post-race blues that comes afterward.

It’s my own damn fault. I could have called the car service, but a 100-mile week seemed like a great idea at the time. And it was.

Because most of the time the journey matters more than the destination.

Of course, for the rest of my life, Cia-Cia will remind me – and all our friends, family and pretty much everyone she meets – that I walked 100 miles to get fucked. Works as an epitaph, too.

Note to self: outlive her.

It must be what? Three in the morning? Grab my watch off the nightstand and my stomach rolls at the time on the display: 2:05. I’m exhausted and my legs feel like anvils, but I’m wired and dangerously awake, trapped in my thoughts.

Snap the light on, adjust my eyes to the surroundings and feel like I’m stuck in some Vegas-style imitation of a country gentleman’s abode. Dark woods, dark walls, very expensive furnishings that look like Liberace threw up in a hunting lodge. Should’ve chosen another room after the greeter showed me around...

Okay, so showing me around is more aptly put as reamed and sucked me, which on one hand is a delightful thought, and on the other, profoundly depressing. God, do I know plenty of people who would love to be met at the door of a resort by a cheery, hot, and willing sexual accomplice – myself among them – but at this hour, alone in this huge display of conspicuous consumption, I wish it hadn’t been me.

Fine. So I didn’t have the common sense to put the brakes on, check out the menu and the digs, make my own choice. Chalk it up to runner’s delirium.

Doesn’t matter. My eyes are wide open, and the brakes have been applied and locked.

Now I need a bell.

Nothing I’d rather do more at this moment than ring for Jeeves or Wooster or who-the-fuck-ever to appear at my door with a tray of food. If I recall from my "hey, how are you let's fuck" tour, the kitchen is blessedly close to this room and apparently larger than a soundstage at Paramount.

Yeah, it’s gotta be food. Perfect distraction for the sad night train thoughts and a suitable antidote for the blues.

Yank on some sweats and head out into the dim hallway, aim myself to the light at the end of the passageway like a dead man trotting because it’s so goddamn still. Not a creature stirring. Either that or I’m in some frigging unused wing of this place, which is as likely as anything.

Get to the end, turn into a doorway. Fingers fumble along ridged tile, trip over switches and flood the room in yellowy light. What I see makes my mouth water, and honest-to-Christ if my dick doesn’t jump a little.

If Martha Stewart ever has a love child with Emeril it will be conceived in this room. There should be a sign: Caution All Cooks: Sudden Hard-ons May Interfere with Appliance Operation. Ovens, plural. Sub-zeros, plural. Sinks, multiple. And that door over there? Bet it’s the pantry.

Good bet. As big as the bedroom, and shelves stocked with everything imaginable. Smelling like wheat flour and onionskin and potatoes, jars and cans and fibrous sacks and another goddamn sink and I am a happy, happy man. Run my fingers over the jars of preserved fruit and boxes of salt, and feel a little less lost.

Maybe I’ll just yank the blankets off the bed in my room and bring them in here, roll up and pass out amongst the dry goods.

I just might—but after I whip up a little something to stop this growling in my gut. Something to make me feel a little closer to home.

Comments

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 02:56 pm (UTC)

It feels like it's been at least twenty years since I've eaten anything solid. I woke up a couple hours ago, felt completely normal for the first time since I came back here.

The sheets in my bed weren't covered in sweat, my head wasn't pounding, my throat doesn't hurt. I can take a deep breath and it actually feels like a deep breath and not a knife through my lungs.

And I'm fucking starving for something other than broth and jello and toast. Jesus. I'd sell my soul for a real breakfast, even if it's not close to dawn.

I want to go running again. I want to go down to the gym and work out. I want to go see if anyone has been in the Chapel and I want some goddamn pancakes. Right fucking now. Big, thick ones like my mom makes. Golden brown and deceptively fluffy. Covered with steaming maple syrup and real butter. Nothing else. Nothing fancy. No fruit or whipped cream. No little smiley faces made out of raisins or chocolate chips. No whole wheat or added ingredients to make them healthy. I want some carbohydrate filled, cardiac arrest inducing, so heavy they make you go back to bed and sleep until noon pancakes.

I slide out of bed and pull on a black silk robe. Barely remember to tie it before I leave my room, heading down to the kitchen. I think I remember how to cook, fuck, it has been a long time, but if I set off the smoke alarms I know I'll still get my pancakes.

I light a cigarette before I get to the kitchen, smoke trailing after me and I suddenly remember how good the coffee is here. I need some of that too. Dark and rich, almost espresso.

My mouth is watering and I'm biting down on the filter when I stumble into the kitchen. The lights are on, but that doesn't mean anything. Anyone could've been down here and I'm actually lucky that at this time of night I haven't walked in on ... things being done on the kitchen table.

And doesn't that bring a smile to my face.

I hear someone moving around in the pantry and go stand in the open doorway. Heh. Someone new. Someone I don't know. Thin, worn sweats covering him and I smile.

"Hungry?"

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 02:58 pm (UTC)

Flax. Spelt. Malt. Rye. There are more kinds of flour in here than at Ralph's. And damn, I do not miss Ralph's.

"Hungry?"

Husky, deep voice lifts me off the floor, sends blood pounding in my ears. It's bad enough that this place is cavernous, now there's some dude like creeping Jesus, just appearing in the middle of the damn room.

"The fuck?" Turn around fast, nearly dropping the glass canister of baking powder.

No, this would not be creeping Jesus. He could be, if Jesus was about six-one, sleep-stubbled and wearing a black silk robe, but since that's something I haven't seen in any bible, I'll assume not. Plus, if Jesus was this good looking he'd have a much more dedicated following.

Take a few steps out of the pantry. Fighting a twinge of guilt that maybe I woke him.

"Hey, man. Sorry. You scared the crap outta me."

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 02:59 pm (UTC)

"No, dude. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." I'm laughing, following him back out of the pantry and into the kitchen.

"I'm just here for some food. I'm freakin' starving. I want some pancakes and I can't wait for the staff to get up. I haven't eaten for ... a while."

I lean against a counter, crush my cigarette out in a small crystal ashtray and jesus, I can't drop the smile. I probably look like a lunatic, but it feels so good to just feel good.

I hold my hand out, deciding to act like I at least pretend to know how to act like a human being.

"I'm David. And you are new here, right? I haven't been out of it that long, I hope."

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:00 pm (UTC)

Company. Hungry company. That's always welcome.

Tuck the baking powder under my arm and meet the hand he's offering me, grip back hard. Meet his eyes, can't cover my own smile at the way the skin around his crinkles a bit.

But there's something off here.

Big man. Big, happy smile. Skin tone like dried-out shit, and the touch of his hand is damp. Clammy. Those eyes? A little rheumy, and those dark circles are the last in a litany of tip offs that something's not very right. I step into the handshake a little closer, and feel his energy pooling around him, sickly and stressed.

"David, good to meet you. I'm TJ. I've got the second night sleeplessness, so I thought I'd make something to eat. Carb-load a little, see if it knocks me out. You look like you could stand a meal."

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:01 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:01 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:02 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:03 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:04 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:05 pm (UTC)

Sure, I caught the whisk -- backhanded, even -- but a tall, striking man perched languidly on the countertop next to my elbow was not supposed to be part of my mise en place.

Long, tapered fingers slide a mug of steaming ambrosia to clink against the side of the pottery bowl where my heap of dry ingredients sits, waiting to be transformed. Beautiful hands. Artist's hands.

And yes, I can see him putting together a bracciole with those hands -- tying delicate knots in the twine to keep the flank steak from separating, keeping all of the wonderful secrets from spilling out in the very first slice.

The smell of the French roast is making my mouth water. Because that's the right response to...coffee. Which is crying out for a good dose of black sambuca.

Step back into the pantry and grab a couple of bottles: sambuca, top-grade Canadian maple syrup.

Choose the stove across the room as the best place to melt some butter, warm up some syrup. There's the slightest trace of a rueful laugh as he dismembers my assumption that he's a rambling fool, which was not what I meant. Not at all.

"I'm a marathoner. Ran Boston for the hundredth a few years back, try to run either the New York or the San Francisco every year if I can.

"So, I was over here in a play that closed about three weeks ahead of time. One of those deals where the press is supposedly so hot that you're gonna make serious noise, and then it just dies like a fucking dead thing.

"Decided to walk it off. So I did the sauce tour. Y' know, Worcestershire, Gloucestershire. Whathehellshere."

The butter is bubbling in the pan, and the industrial microwave has turned the syrup into lava. Turn to see David staring at me, head tilted, smiling a smile that could've made the butter into ghee all on its own. So I put some spin on the bottle of Sambuca Romano, aim right for those beautiful hands.

"Long bomb," I call.

He catches it like a pro. Shakes his head, curses me.

Bring the pans back to the counter, following that smile all the way. Look up at him and ask one of the many questions that has been burning in my head since leaving the West End:

"What the fuck is happening to the NHL? Is there any saving that abortion, or should we just bury the Stanley Cup in Bobby Hull's back yard and call it a day?"

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:06 pm (UTC)

I set the bottle off on the counter, laughing. I open the lid and breathe in the aroma. Reminds me of home, of my parents. But I don't add it to my coffee.

"Licorice has never been one of my favorites. Just don't tell my mom, okay?"

I watch him whip up a batter, butter spattering in the skillet. Fuck. I think I'm drooling. And when I watch the way his hips move as he stirs ... the tight, quick, compact movement under the sweats ... okay. Now I know I am.

I light another cigarette and glance around the room. Searching for distraction from both the food and my own lusty thoughts. For now.

"I run in the mornings, or rather, I did before I got sick. You're welcome to join me, if you'd like. I'd appreciate the company."

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:07 pm (UTC)

"That secret's safe with me. You wanna hit me with a splash of that? Late nights call for a little something extra in the pot."

And speaking of, a little Hawaiian skunk would hit the spot right about now, and help me put a bigger dent in these pancakes. Shrug that idea off, because as good as David looks on the counter, he still looks pretty puke-ariffic.

Stack a couple of plates with hotcakes that reach nearly to the edges of the expensive stoneware rims. Set one on one side of the big, old table, one on the other. Face to face.

I love watching people eat. And with a face like his...before he can raise the forkful of food to his mouth I look away. It's an effort, but necessary.

"Thanks, but I don't think I'm gonna have the time. I'm heading home tomorrow and I have some shit to do around that.

"So tell me? What's your plan to fix the National Hockey League, David? C'mon, you can't tell me you walked yourself to near death and one never crossed your mind."

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:08 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:08 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:09 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:10 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:11 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:12 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:13 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:14 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:15 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:18 pm (UTC)

Count to three and stand, trying to get the feeling back in my feet and shins, which decided -- without the rest of me -- to seize and tingle with a rush of pins and needles, tell-tale harbingers of deadening nerves and frozen muscles.

What I need -- more than the way he cocks his head toward the doorway, more than that smoky smile -- is for a decent pair of knowing hands to work the pain out of my feet, ankles and shins.

Center my energy with a deep breath and push past the discomfort, and meet him at the door. Lean against his arm for the briefest of seconds before he bounds up the back stairway like an oversized puppy. And pray to sanctified, crucified, butterflied christ that his room isn't on the top floor.

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:23 pm (UTC)

I'm two flights up when I realize that TJ is not behind me and I trip back down to find him. Collect him. Bring him. Throw him over my fucking shoulder if I have to. Damn, I feel good. First time in two weeks, I think.

Being sick sucks.

When we're finally at my door, I open it and once again thank the little, pretty women that work overtime at this place. The fire is blazing under the mantle, my bed is made and I know that the fridge is stocked with beer, wine, liquor and juice. They do know me well. Too well, sometimes.

"Come on in."

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:25 pm (UTC)
tj khaki

Don't know how I did it, but when David peeked down from the upper landing, I sprinted the distance between us.

Training, I guess; stage training and running up the hills and along the canyon roads back home. Lactic acid sears my calves and shins and makes my eyes tingle, but I try to manage it and breathe it out before we get to his room. No set of stairs is getting in the way of this journey.

I have a couple of hours left here, and I'm not going to let them slip from my grasp.

Step past David's outstretched arm and into the room.

It's everything my randomly selected nightmare boudoir is not. Rich. Tasteful. Sumptuous. And it suits him perfectly, satins and velvets, silks and linens. Carpeting so thick it eases the burning on the balls of my feet. Wide windows that look out into the black night.

And everywhere -- on easels and ledges, on the tabletops -- sketches. Beautiful faces, amazing bodies, leaves and leaves of dazzling pretty boys in varying shades of gray.

Take an unsteady step toward the table next to the wide, luxuriously-appointed bed, and look down on an open sketchbook. Close cropped hair, angular cheekbones, sharp chin, shading in the irises that speak of a light color, blue, maybe. Compelling.

Not sure I need -- or want to know any more than that.

Can't afford to squander this handful of precious hours wondering about anyone else in this place but us. Turn my gaze to the easel, to the half-finished landscape, green and glistening in aqueous light.

Reach behind me because I can feel him standing there, take his sticky fingers in mine. Gesture to the world of expression surrounding us.

"David, these...you...are incredible."

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:26 pm (UTC)

I watch as he walks around my room, chewing on one lip. Not that I care what he thinks about the mess, more that I care about the drawings. And what he thinks. His eyes take in everything, his hands reach back behind him for me and I smile.

"Not special. Not me. This and a dollar will buy you a cup of coffee, if you're lucky. It's just a hobby. Just something I do, the only thing I have left."

The sketches of everyone I've met. Of churches and castles, of faces that mean nothing and some that mean everything. Faces are my addiction. I draw what is in my mind and there are so many in me.

"What do you want, TJ? I can draw you ... I would like to, if you'd let me."

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:27 pm (UTC)
tj khaki

There is so much talent in this man that it stuns me. My heart leaps to my throat and trembles there as I scan the room again.

I'm in the midst of treasure, and his humility is startling.

My knees are weak not from the walk or the stairs now, but from the sheer force of the ability and vision -- the pure passion here. Dark and endless, like the raw need that drives him to these flesh and bone and blood interpretations of his life, of his loves, of his memories. Of his soul.

His voice is soft, nearly a whisper when he speaks.

"What do you want, TJ? I can draw you ... I would like to, if you'd let me."

Pressure of his grip intensifies around my hand, and I turn to face him. Look into those magnificent depths, cup his chin in my fingers and pull his face down to mine. Take in the scent of rainforests and ancient recipes on his breath, let it mingle with mine as the room goes just a touch more quiet.

"I'd like that, David. In a little while."

Touch my lips to his, and breathe. Trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips and kiss him lightly, just enough to feel his mouth tremble under mine, just enough to taste the traces of sweetness on his lips. Pull away just before our tongues touch to look into his eyes.

"In a little while."

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:28 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:28 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:29 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:30 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:31 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:32 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:32 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:33 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:33 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:34 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:36 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:36 pm (UTC)

As each swirl and stroke and stipple meets my skin, as I absorb the pigments into my bloodstream and fight to hold my position, stay focused and calm and release myself from the all-consuming need to reach for David and pull him to me and end this blissful agony, two things keep me motionless and anchored to the bed without silk scarves or silver chains or spikes rammed through my hands and feet.

One: Frida Kahlo.

I breathe her essence like grave dust and tempera, use her suffering as a fireline to help tame the blaze that consumes me. Spine shattered and held with metal screws, body broken, betrayed by fate and desire and still able to paint, jesus god, holding the center against all reason and able to create. Push past sensation, limitation, ego. The dance of brush on canvas is life – life created, transformed, destroyed and resurrected. I repeat the silent mantra over and over with each touch: This time is a gift. Be still.

The other: Him.

Unreachable, lost in the void where imagination lives, David works, entranced, moved by something larger than himself, larger than both of us and I can’t take my eyes off him. I know that look; know that feeling as well I know the breath in my lungs and the taste of my own spit in my mouth. I remember that focus, that lust, that certainty that if you do not act on the impulse to create you will die.

Remember, in that horrible, slow motion scrolling of time as though I’m watching an unstoppable accident (envision Frida, clinging to the strap of the city bus on a sunny morning when everything is possible and art school is right around the corner), remember that I am still scarred by the crippling desolation, the only survivor of the hour when that impulse fled my soul, when it took whatever vision or dreamscape or fable I might’ve made right along with it, leaving me too empty for death.

David laughs and spatters chromium blue and turquoise and sunflower yellow on his canvas, delirious.

The touch of his tongue on my body, at last and lightning flashes in my belly and

can’t move can’t think can’t react can’t control

the hissing of grief and pleasure conjoined in my solar plexus, snaking up my spine and coiling around my heart and closing my throat, stinging my eyes and it wasn’t supposed to be like this but it is and there’s nothing I can do but hope he’s not scared away by me, by this…wild, reckless insanity.

Have to reach for him...have to touch…

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:37 pm (UTC)

My fingers slide through the colors I've coated him with, up his chest to his neck. One arm under him, one above. I stare into his eyes, my hip slipping as I lean into him, kiss him.

A thousand thoughts there, a million dreams. Memories that I can't even begin to unravel and I wonder if this is what Chris saw after he met TJ in a hallway, at the front door, in the foyer, in the kitchen. Wherever they crossed paths. I wonder and I lean closer for another kiss.

I can feel the wall around him. Tall and strong, one to another. Mine may be broken and crumbling, but his is complete still and I marvel at it. The thought crosses my mind that this is me ... a year ago, a lifetime ago. So stuck in the past that I couldn't see the future if it walked up and slapped me. Fucked me. Tied me up and raped me.

I can feel the pain pour from his soul and I trace the outline of his lips with paint covered fingers.

"Why are you so unhappy, TJ? What, who has hurt you so much ... what can I do to make you smile again? Where can I take you to make you forget?"

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:38 pm (UTC)

How can I tell this breathtaking stranger…this paint box dweller … who can’t possibly know the slightest thing about me … that I had forgotten, nearly? That I had walked it off, left it in a distant, unreachable place? How can I tell this intimate comrade that I had almost forgotten until he touched me?

My heart is hammering in my chest, waves of trapped heat and unspent passion rolling through me in a sickly tempest of emotion. The pain in my hands, the hot, excruciating pulsing at the base of my thumbs feeds a sudden flash of fury – who the fuck is he to judge my happiness, measure my damage? What the fuck right does he have to assume anything when all I’ve done is what he asked, lain here and let him get off on painting me? And…

Feel the one kind of heat seep out of me with the touch of his mouth on mine, with the taste of chromium oxide on his tongue and the sweet, deep comfort of his kiss. Kiss him back, slow and deep and open and open and…

Feel the anger melt away into a heat more tender and bittersweet, tell myself this isn’t about him; he’s not responsible for what I’m feeling. Remind myself that there is nothing but this moment. No yesterday.

No tomorrow.

The very words claw at me, shred me and I feel the anger simmer again. This is my choice, and he has no right to make me want to stay. I know the deal because I’m a realist, godfuckingdamn him: I’m just another newbie at the Pile. And you know what? I was over that yesterday.

Press sweat-slick palms to his chest, ready to shove him off me, ready to walk out without waiting for daylight or a limo or plane reservations. Feel him pull back and I rest my brow on his cheek, let my breaths come shallow and hard against the side of his neck, feeling like I’ve been fucked through and through even though all we’ve done is … paint.

Take a few seconds to compose myself, let the scent of flax and oil and turpentine soothe me. Talk myself off the ledge. Just kiss him. Apologize and tell him the truth: that you don’t fuck artists. You don’t date them, you don’t sleep with them, and you don’t fall in love with them. Occupational hazard, but there it is. Chalk up the kissing and the nakedness and the rest of it to a much-needed but truly momentary lapse in reason. A beautiful distraction.

Let my head fall back to the mattress, take a breath and look into his face. Reach up, trace the smears of color on his cheek, feel my body spasm with pleasure as he closes his eyes and leans into my touch.

“David…you’re amazing…”

It comes out a whisper, and is entirely not what I was planning to say.

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:39 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:40 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:41 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:41 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:42 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:42 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:43 pm (UTC)

Posted by: not_thyne (not_thyne)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:44 pm (UTC)

Posted by: fallen_angel_db (fallen_angel_db)
Posted at: September 29th, 2006 03:54 pm (UTC)

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