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Summary
to forgive, divine.
It’s a matter of perspective.
At least that’s what he tells himself so he can sleep at night. His sleep isn’t sound, instead riddled with nightmares and roaming hands. Hot whiskey eyes and bony fingers make themselves at home in his mind and he can’t escape. There’s a bomb, ticking away, set to explode – or perhaps implode? – in less than a month and yet he can’t help himself from wanting to play with the wires.