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Moffat Machingura

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“Because there is hunger. Like any desire, it’s only temporarily satisfied, which calls into question the reliability of satisfaction and whether such a state can be said to exist at all. Anything we eat knows us more intimately than a lover. Not merely the inside of our mouth but the esophagus, stomach, alimentary canal, upper and lower colon, sphincter. Everything we desire, we shit out and leave behind.”

“He dared to reach out, finally took the prize he'd been longing to claim. He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, then cupped her chin to tilt her face up. For a moment, she let him hold her so close that her hot breath brushed his face, then with a start she stumbled away. "N-no. You shouldn't do that. I'm engaged to your brother." Her lips formed the words of protest, but her eyes told a different story. She liked his touch, liked his closeness. Deep inside, in places she'd been taught to ignore, she wanted him. A surge of triumph and rekindled desire caught Dominic off guard. He smiled as he edged closer again, thoroughly enjoying the hunt in a way he hadn't for a long time. "A married man can't be engaged, Kat." That made her turn and she steadied herself on the terrace wall when she realized how close he was. But she didn't step away. "You shouldn't call me that." Her voice trembled like her hands. "Why? I like it. It fits you." He edged even closer and touched her face a second time. This time she leaned into his palm with a small, almost imperceptible whimper. "But I promise I'll only call you Kat when we're alone. When we're in bed." Her lips parted with surprise. "We won't ever share a bed," she murmured, but the protest was weak, indeed. "No?" he whispered. With a slow dip of his head, Dominic captured her lips. Though she didn't pull back, she seemed frozen with shock and didn't respond immediately either. But that was just part of the challenge. Gently, Dominic nibbled her lower lip, tasting the sweet honey of her skin until she opened her mouth to him with a gasp. He took the access she granted and tasted her. He continued to be gentle, exploring rather than plundering. There would be time to ravage and pillage later. Finally, with a moan that came from deep within her, Katherine slid her hands up to clutch his arms and tentatively returned his kiss. The reaction sent a rush of longing through him that it nearly unmanned him. The control he'd been so carefully practicing suddenly fled.”

“We cannot recall our dreams, they cannot come back to us. If a dream comes – but what sort of coming is a dream's? Through what night does it make its way? If it comes to us, it does so only by way of forgetfulness, a forgetfulness which is not only censorship or simply repression. We dream without memory, in such a way that the dream of any particular night is no doubt a fragment of a response to an immemorial dying, barred by desire’s repetitiousness. There is no stop, there is no interval between dreaming and waking. In this sense, it is possible to say: never, dreamer, can you awake (nor, for that matter, are you able to be addressed thus, summoned). The dream is without end, waking is without beginning; neither one nor the other ever reaches itself. Only dialectical language relates them to each other in view of a truth.”