There's no reward in the unadorned truth. It stuns the nerves, levels pillars, and suffers manipulations. Truth, poor truth. -the unfortunate recompense of the aesthete. -a bane to cozy pleasantries. Point your light plain truth, toward the fog of human folly. Be the agent of our salvation.
We'd get so high, project the foolish and let the vapors run us ragged. Our incantatory howling an extension of iridescent smoke plumes. Parched and pining, we'd sip sublimonade from circus spouts and own up to the awful, as our tempers would allow. The act of incinerating barriers lovers never broach is wild work. Those days are of a kind safer minds may never know.
That curious she, lithe and in peace. Wielder of favor -- her influence one with the power of fitful beauty. She's afore me now. And through her will bound in supposition, enchanting on wings of fortnight fancy. While intensely convulsive during her paternal rituals; I, the target of her amorous charge, am infected. With her shadowy gaze she states: Dispense with your grace dear, for sweet speed owns this union. Tomorrow, as yesterday, brings new light and love. Stay regret, however, and stay passion. Brevity and honesty will the heart to a calm repose.