We don’t have to charge into it, flashes of red at the encierro. It only takes the lightes

We don’t have to charge into it, flashes of red at the encierro. It only takes the lightest of touches to squeeze a trigger, pop that bullet out of the muzzle and cause a catastrophic event, your own personal apocalypse. I’m not going to charge, not for you. I’m going to wander down that street, bulls be damned. I’m going to amble, sight see, and meander. I can take my time.

Because you’re not going anywhere. It only took the slightest of glances and you felt that electric thrill run down your spine, and that was the lightest of touches, the squeeze on the trigger. The bullet is taking its time, too, and when it lands the consequences are going to be catastrophic for you. The atomic bomb will land on what was your life, and you’re going to have to pick up the pieces, puzzle them back together, and hope that you figure out where the edges are before your mind crumbles with it. 

I don’t care about the puzzle that you were, I don’t care about all those little experiences that you’ve accumulated, that you hold in that paltry knapsack, gypsy treasures from a gypsy life. That’s over, now. Smithereens. I’m picking up the pieces, and I’m recreating you in my image. 

The bullet is going to land home, and I’m going to lay my hands on you, and the world is going to go down in flames. But I’ll still be here, still have my hands on you, and somehow, miraculously, you’re not going to be part of the devastation. 

And we’ll fuck like it’s the last night on earth, every night, until it is.