If. If questions are the keys to all basic curiosities and one of the keys to the question of happiness imply sex and candy as a properly shaped answer, to incite any secret door of the psyche to get open in the soul of the fairy tales read at the gold hour for you to feel me, as if I'm with you, right there, even if I am right here, in a deeply cocooned test, sipping subtle some booze, while I'm surrounded by music that I've chosen to listen to it right now, picturing you. I'll always remember us this way. And that's even not complicated. On the contrary, is the perfect cover for lots of waves of laughter we brought to each other lavishly times. So again, shake it, baby... (as if you shake me in your arms).

you, — my dearest dream, the one that makes my physiognomy to be simultaneously wild and precious next to you, what kind of plan do you have tomorrow, and how do you intend to transform me, and in what kind of language you'd gonna talk to me, because mine will be set in deep blue dialect, as you, forever to percept me a gift of love omnipotent

in my universe, there’s another universe... even better, in your universe, there’s another universe... and both are so amazing, and complicated... and impossible... and yet, so deliciously are both dimensions... and animals talk and you... you're the sunflower...

avec ce goût suave du péché, — une chanson, sans élément de l’innocence, — un script, juste comme sont tes pensées à mes pensées, tes lèvres à mes lèvres, ta maniéré à ma manière

we are drifting miles away but we get along just fine, — browsers' sorcerers help persistent magic of net's air brings securely all mysteries at rendezvous of our spirits midnight-sun•midday-moon ennobles our waves' quartet, — we are where we are, — here

you know i'm gonna love you until the end of the world, and then, i will wait for the creation of ever is happening, to happen, again and again, while both of us will listen to the same old song, (preferred and rose) by (me and you), the one who loves me and knows exactly how i want it

What do you do at the hour when I miss you? I, culpable, I reset you sometimes… I don't cry… That isn't an option… for in sentimental moments I picture you as if you're a flower, a faultless fruit, to pick you up, to taste you, without a shame to tell you, — I love you daring pleasure. Mine…

apt, qualified, trained, disciplined, with love in jaspé step of sun's beam, is tacked tenderly, the dawn's colors a color is me, found in any tableau amassed from many songs out of life straight in the bottom of your soul, — morningstar is a passional painter using any maneuver to seduce me with [an absolute aroma if I want candy]

for I'm still under your spell, it's because of love, which, scanned in a guiding light, got inside my constellation, to create an alluring fantasy with the geometrical scent architectured by your smile in my tomorrow's thoughts placidly calculated for you

If you'd gonna disappear, in a random evening gloom, my sweet one, my bitter one, I'd sail crazy on the sea-foam with a sack that's full of clay and a back-full of twig-sprigs to reshape you from beginning with the power of my hand...    long and monotonous labor   (just to bring you back to life,  lovely feme adored woman...) me, a sick Pygmalion...  c'mon, wander, Galatea. long and monotonous labor, x2 (just to bring you back to life, lovely feme adored woman...) If you'd gonna disappear, be your death made of life only, my sweet one, my bitter one, I'd go to the ice's countries to rebuild you out of icicles, dressing you into a hoar-frost, after that be free to leave wherever your dreams will be. If you'd gonna truly fall, at the moment of high reveal, I would quietly come to you, recompose you out of angels. I would quietly come to you, x2  recompose you out of angels After all this, I will leave... humiliated and bamboozled to the side

Are inscriptions through all your dreams that dream about me. They're written in the language of love utilizing the alphabet of heroes and saints, together to bloom through any appearance. Any self of me with any self of you transformed us into poems just to run from story to story created by the fruitfulness of your hallucinations which visualize me. Memories are seen even from the first picture. So extravagantly your love rocks, magically sheltered in the carrying stars to where you are...

his lips pressuring mine gives tenderly turbulence our archaeological elixir transpires carnal desire a feu rouge fueled to give, i am... (gimme your love)

I'm curious about many and a lot, a lot of things. I have to do something, but also, I should try this, and that... even those, — so better do not disturb. Don't you get in my universe if you'll not succeed in grasping the manner, I'm listening to a song or if your emotions aren't linked with all the music that I've chosen to listen to. It isn't an experiment. The answers to many questions sit in waiting for a subtle happiness. That happiness of which size doesn't matter if in music are found the solutions.

songs that are elapsing through my verses gives adrenaline excess (subito...) you are caught in ce petit quelque chose just like… or, (just like…)

— Can I tell you a secret? I'm not very good at keeping secrets.    — What?    —  I just wanted to take another look at you. Look at me.          I love you! You're the music to my eyes!         They can't hurt us. We're far from the shallow now.

To define entertainment, happiness, love or whatever, it's better to be done, only at your own present time, isn't it? I'm feelin' good. It's a Sunday kind of Love.

juste pour le péché d'être aimé de moi, juste pour le péché d'être aimé de toi... un message séraphique et suggestif, — [blessé par un bruit nerveux d’aucuns esprits imbéciles... et accusateurs...], flotte dans l'écho silencieux d'un rêve où j't'écoute chérie, t'm'écoute chérie, mimant ludique une passion charnelle ✳ ... si certains ne peuvent pas être excités par la musique, à quoi ça sert d'expliquer, basiquement, c'est juste la musique [... là]   for the sin of being loved by me, for the sin of being loved by you, a suggestive innocent message [hurt by a nervous noise of some imbecile and accusatory minds], waits in a silent echo of a dream to listen to darling me... and you, miming playfully carnal passion ✳ if some can't be thrilled by music, what's the point to explain to 'em, basically, it's only music, (...there)

coffee, — (sweeten with the honey of blues), hot, — (as in as much to feel its vibration), firmly, — (to wake up into a delicious dream), served, — (blueprint of your lips on my lips), when, — (what about you'll give me a sign), price, — (my only one smile)

Again, I woke up in my mind with you, and your gamy face having the stench of a defendant with an uncertain sense. Again, with your biggy eyes, you gaze at me and manage the whispers from your paradise as me to be transformed. Again, you've sniffed me for putting me to sleep, invoking what I wanna hear, me to be yours, profoundly and attentive. Simply like that, again, I am under your spell, an amateur, an incident, a song in all and any, or saboteur of your soul. Again… so innocent, you morphed gently in my thoughts, a symbiote who dips in me, you are, perturbing all my dreams, my judgment, and my feelings, desire… sex… and love...

let me put it this way, (show you how), my thoughts are irreplaceable bijoux penned on your earlobe, take a look at you, as always, will kiss them (deeply), like a go-getter to listen to their poem adorned in love's attire i wear for you‥

Is it too harmfully to your lungs to inbreathe the air full of my love stretched out inside you? Is it too harmfully to your eyes get gazing in mine, while my kisses are spreading inside you? Is it so harmful to your liver to dive in my smile when you're so hidden in the Eden of my mind? Is it so necessary for you to make a heart transplant knowing already that's no longer yours but mine?

❝ This is true, my love that the lightning flashes in the light of your eyes makes the clouds in my heart explode and blaze This is true, my love that your sweet lips are red as a blushing bride This is true, my love that the tree of paradise flowers within you that your footsteps beat to the rhythm of my soul the night sheds drops of dew at your sight that the morning surrounds you with light from delight that the touch of your hot breath intoxicates my soul This is true, my love that daylight hides in the dark of your hair that your voice makes the world fall silent to hear your song and that the universe is nothing but your lovemaking. This is true, my love.... ❞

with your lungs in my mind I love you… — you breathe me so beautifully with your heart in my eyes I love you… — you pulsate to me, happiness with your eyes in my soul I love you… — your charming dreams are me any subversive's acts of some are chased away... — and more I don't wanna know all, on my mind, is murmuring I love you... — wherever, anytime, everywhere, forever

No. I'll not talk about me. I'll refuse that. I already saw how your light got scared tracing me at all gymnastic's apparatus of grammar's fantasy, which I called 'em, poetically, (free verses), (essences) a.s.o. No. I will not lend, to anybody, my shoes. It's risky. It'll make your darkness, as well, to hide, or even more, to evaporate itself. Also, I don't want that. You need a balance. I hope that your own wishes get fulfilled, and next to your joys and loves, will drip more drops of,  — happiness, love, money, healthiness, inspirations, and marvelous hours next to the ones you truly cherish. Hope your new choices be without errors. If I've been your life's mistake, I have hope you learned a lesson and will be no repeat. Hope you'll have a happy holiday. I wish you. My thoughts are true. Will travel to this space of the hazard. Some will find them, some not, some will simply ignore them. But it's okay.☺ As for me, I'll be around st

About 60 km off Marseille, at Mouriès, in Bouches-du-Rhône, in a paradise realm, at the age of 94, the great artist, Charles Aznavour passed away leaving behind an extraordinary treasure of songs dipped in love stories. Piously, the world bows in front of him for the last time. Adieu, Monsieur.

the goddess of the autumn runs my nerves under the stars of your sky, love; watching your smile talking with my smile, perceives precisely what you need; like a dandelion in my dream's shell, you are; so vivid you breathe the air I breathe;

velvety breeze tenderly sun obscure cloud manipulates magnificently your murmurs highs and lows Tu m'avais dit — Filme moi

Dear dizzy fall day from this time of the year, even if it seems to be the season of the witch, I dunno what kind of strategy are you trying, but to be accurate, I didn't imagine our dating be so gray and cold and without your golden and brassy and warm sunshades. Fortunately, I was inspired to put on me, some perfume with sprightly notes, to avoid any wrong situation, also to reinvent another story, with each part of your sun, inclined on me, to look shinier. Guess that could be one of your deep excuses, in your hurry to see me, and is accepted; yet, do whatever's necessary to fix up your mood. Even implore a competent one for a prescription… — P.S. — Do it AˢSᵒᵒⁿAˢPᵒˢˢⁱᵇˡᵉ. Winter knocks.