manual zombie creeps through the night. It doesn’t live. it does not die. it will kiss your neck and whisper a lie. it is the woman for whom you feel maternal love but cannot look in the face. It doesn’t sleep, it does not wake. It does not love, it does not hate. it caresses your body and tells you to remove your clothes. it’s pupils pierce through the dense fog with a heavy glow. It does not kill, it does not let live. it does not take, it does not give manual zombie is a remorseless, senseless, impersonal fact.
