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He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.
I looked at the screen, the blue light washing over the scars on my knuckles like a cold mountain stream.
Observation 4: The subject’s respiration increased by forty percent when the tactile stimulation shifted from the mid-thigh to the pelvic girdle.
I was a tourist in his tragedy, standing in a limestone cellar that smelled of old wood and new sins.
You looked like you were ready to pitch a Series A to the kale salad, and honestly, I’ve never been more turned on.