His pure body was almost killed. But the
miraculous, soft effluence of her breast suffused over him, over his
seared, damaged brain, like a healing lymph, like a soft, soothing flow
of life itself, perfect as if he were bathed in the womb again.
His brain was hurt, seared, the tissue was as if destroyed. He had not
known how hurt he was, how his tissue, the very tissue of his brain was
damaged by the corrosive flood of death. Now, as the healing lymph of
her effluence flowed through him, he knew how destroyed he was, like a
plant whose tissue is burst from inwards by a frost.
He buried his small, hard head between her breasts, and pressed her
breasts against him with his hands. And she with quivering hands
pressed his head against her, as he lay suffused out, and she lay fully
conscious. The lovely creative warmth flooded through him like a sleep
of fecundity within the womb. Ah, if only she would grant him the flow
of this living effluence, he would be restored, he would be complete
again.
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