kitchen seems smaller for both of them to use it, — nerves pollutes the air … this bad episode caused tough gazes between them, like a wordless song ⋯ the context wasn't rude, but wasn't pleasant... (neither fun); as it came... has gone
was it not my purpose to fall in love with you but to be happy, to taste your wildish passion, the magic of a miracle you are, my storyteller, the writer costumed as a soldier of the words using the polychromic vestments of illusions provoking me, confessing till I'm pouring down amazing, for I hate you so much as I miss you
Isn't a saturnine morning but is perceived so, identical like some complaints of yours... — which not once, you made me listen to them, even if you fooled yourself, very convinced I'm gonna let the things come easy for you. Music's wave is to deliver you another reply in paralleled dialect, like most of your actions, certain taboos of your love, here but not here, there but not there, in an axiom philosophy of the one who loves you the most... today.
i bloom with the dawns when i don't spend time with night, (engaged in my dreams) ⋯ on dreams' lips i am the touch you long for, (best thrill), if i'll come running ⋯ love's strength get us drunk, but so do the dreams and hopes trapped in our souls' whirls ⋯ we live time as it's, — (without past and future), just lust for each other ⋯ moaned the day and night, intertwined since forever through their present time
his fictitious gallant being, longs for her nakedness ⋯ somehow she feels him how his mind rides to her... ⋯ feels the appetizing show prior to the start of fancy... ⋯ prior to the wink of the sun in her wetly blue... tempted ⋯ (addicted), waits for her call in his longest deeply dream
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
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.
love me today exactly as if I'd be a suave melody, be poetic, be like a painter full of gentleness in his enormous attention for any detail... — love me today exactly as if you are hypnotized by some drops of rain in a tropical summer night to cool you to cool me by this fever full of longing love me today exactly as if you search for a reason that brings me back to you, not in the morning, not even at midnight, but at the hour when you read... my savor
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. To be accurate, I didn't imagine our dating be so grayish and cold and without your golden and brassy and cuddled and warm sunshades. Fortunately, I was inspired to put on me some perfume with sprightly notes, enough for avoiding 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.
today, like a climbing shrub, a big love bloomed out of me to perfume and to color life (mine, yours, and others') I have to admit, I'm beautiful just as much as I must be and brilliant, too, naturally I turn you on, I turn on others, as I'm turned on by you and by some as much as matters I transpire discreetness, enough to be felt and to not be disgusted I lie, but my lies are like a shadow you're seeking for in the torrid summers the truth of my truths is like the winter's sun, — shiny and prickly… at once I'm very skillful at some, but unskillful at others… as my fame and failures evil stuff has huge terror of my defy, which operates as antidote tool against 'em I have wishes, expectations but I don't expect 'em to be fulfilled; that gets me rid of mistakes you might be uninterested in me but as I said, out of me blooms effects just for others or some if my story vandalized your time by reading it for nothing, (reflect), episodic, you do similar w
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