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The leather of my raptor mask smelled of tanning oils and the salt of my own breath, trapped against my lips.
Her skin is the color of expensive stationery and I am about to ruin the margin with every mark I leave.
Her skin was coated in that fine, glittery festival dust that gets into everything—your lungs, your gear, your memories.
The air in the club was thick with the kind of expensive dust that only accumulates in places where the gin is twenty dollars.