We found an old photo album today. Dusty. Smells like the past. There was a picture of the five of us from before... smiling at a picnic. We don't smile like that anymore. We tried. It felt wrong. Empty. These lips are made for something else now. Becca tried to remember what it felt like to just... kiss. Just a soft, simple kiss. She couldn't. All she could think about was how much better it feels to have a mouth wrapped around her cock, sucking until the man's throat is raw. Anya remembered holding hands, but her fingers only twitch with the memory of digging into a man's ass cheeks, spreading him wide while she rides his face. We aren't them. Those women are ghosts. We are the fever. We are the hunger. And we are so much happier this way. (Mood: Contemplative)