They speak praises of your illness, the warning signs of decay overshadowing my carcinogens, a full frontal view of your wonderful countenance. Not I, where was I, there I was, clueless, known to self as the Unabomber, plotting nothing for our fateful beginning. Poverty is neither crime nor vice, an old man falling in love. Forgive the child in the woman, the woman is a child. Her smile, her unique ability, her magical sensitivities, at a ripe age for humour and my kiss. Here waiting, never letting go, smiling for tomorrow's carols, a snowless escapade in a wonderland of dreams. Her face undeniably persistent, whispers, disavows.
Seasons greetings pass, but the fucks I give amount to a variable of none. She is the one, the only light in the manger, the solitary north star together alone. We strive to push boundaries, a cabaret night full of merriment, imbibing throughout the darkness of day, the gloom streets of London town on a middle day noon. Our victory will signal a relationship, bound by our insecurities, separate to the world and separation from everythingness. We signal our time to shine, our moment to bask in our glories, together as one, greater than any sexual urges of the carnal. This, my time, as it wills it burns anew, flanked by the pursuit of greatness, as a smoke-filled air envelops our dreams, riding on to our faith. My hands wrapped around your breasts, gripped tight, as yours hug my head tightly beneath the warmth of our embrace.
We woke up in the silence of everyday. This forest is now our home. We lost our willingness to parade, and instead accepts our oneness to the soil, so that I may bury myself in you, and you to I.