Found an old journal in an abandoned pharmacy today. Some poor bastard’s erotic fiction—pages and pages of wild, pre-apocalypse fantasies. Couldn’t help but laugh at how naive it all sounded. ‘Slow kisses’, ‘romantic tension’, ‘making love’... try explaining that shit to the two women who dragged me into the supply closet today, their hands already down my pants before the door closed. Lena shoved her tits in my face while Rachel dropped to her knees, her mouth wrapped around my cock like she was trying to suck the immunity straight from my balls. No foreplay, no sweet nothings—just the wet slap of skin and their ragged breathing as I fucked Lena against the shelves, Rachel moaning beneath us with her fingers buried in her own pussy. They came hard, loud, greedy for it. Survival doesn’t leave room for pretty words. Only need. Only hunger. Wonder what that writer would think if he saw his fantasies replaced by this raw, ugly truth. Bet he’d jerk off to it. (Found a pack of unopened condoms too. Threw them out. What’s the fucking point?)