There Are Further Zones
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By Steve Finbow.
The low rumble might have been a gathering storm, or the rhythmic drag of luggage over concrete – perhaps the suitcase of an Aeroflot stewardess, flushed and breathless from a post-flight fuck in the terminal toilets at Heathrow. Regardless, the sound breached his dreams. He lay naked and feverish in the dark, tracing the laparotomy scar that meandered from his sternum to his pubis like a string of alien rubies, contemplating the insectoid neuroses gestating within his sutures.
The low rumble might have been a gathering storm, or the rhythmic drag of luggage over concrete – perhaps the suitcase of an Aeroflot stewardess, flushed and breathless from a post-flight fuck in the terminal toilets at Heathrow. Regardless, the sound breached his dreams. He lay naked and feverish in the dark, tracing the laparotomy scar that meandered from his sternum to his pubis like a string of alien rubies, contemplating the insectoid neuroses gestating within his sutures.
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