"You wanted to be like them You will never be like them" she said as they were VanGoghing makeup on their faces gutting stockings on the infinity that were their legs.

"You will never be like them" sounds awfully like a slogan a dumb slogan handed and hanged by the ribcage in intersections. But after words, hers she seemed longful for a bit or a bite or a bite-trayal or a good fuck, They were providing her with.

Sounds awfully like a slogan first they fuck up then they grovel at her and her friends, they were sick of their silent cries and eyes and then, finishing the make up layers on her gray punctured canvas of a skin, she went outside where her friends waited and looked out to the nearest walls on the side of the road and stuck herself to them.

First they fuck up then they grovel at her friends and her, then they money them with their hairy arms, then they pay up, indeed. Like a paper or a sticker slapped against the asphalt she lay stuck to the edge of the road as cars cars and trucks cut across her look "They never go forwards, away to the horizon, they MAKE the horizon, going sideways, which is sideways for them as it is to me" she thought.

Then they money them I will never be them, I guess they money them and their eyes and the hands that are crossed like the feet of the martir. Nothing stopps them, but Martirs help them, as they lie to them as they plow a path into the snow that is the sand, so cold choking and freezing, Then they go away, the martirs, into the deep pictures on their walls. "Am I a martir then?" she thought

I will never be them, I guess no, not ever, as much as I try to run away from me, Then she reaches under her stockings to feel the smooth chicken surface of her thigh, "food" she thought for some reason, it hit her, food. The business is not going well lately, especially since they can all go home, now, and get the same service infront of their couches, and eating all the while. Chicken. Grilled, chicken, food. Food, Chicken. Grilled, Chicken for all.

"I will never be like them" and her friends agreed. They picked up someone by mistake and now the night begins The life begins, And the count is first thing in the morning every push every stroke every veto, of the argument right - a voice. This is after all where she belongs, this is where she and her friends belong. But is she.. Are they LIKE them?