The midnight city falls into slumber, leaving the 24-hour laundromat lit like a lonely island.
He's alone, sitting on a cool plastic chair, waiting for the endless cycle of clothes tumbling in the drum. The fluorescent light traces the sleek, defined lines of his body. In this empty space, the air is filled with the clean scent of detergent and an unspoken, intimate atmosphere. The wait becomes long enough for secret thoughts and desires to quietly unfold.
In the monotonous hum, even the shape of desire becomes pure and bare.
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