Are we ever not at war? I think the clits are integral, though. Like
inverse bombs. Maybe the new war is just hiding the old war like a
g-string over smoke-blue boxer briefs. Maybe the new war has a better
clit than the old war. Maybe the old war felt self-conscious about its
clit and tried to gain more belly fat to hide the old clit and the new
war came and sucked it off and gave the old war mixed feelings, internal
conflict, complicated the narrative.
Or maybe the bus is the ultimate clit, large and robust and full of
organisms and somewhat funky and the war is every pressure against the
window, every shadow pursuing the bus from the corner, never out of
breath, always with exact change in its pocket and eventually,
eventually, the bus will have to stop and let it on.