Post by Henry Rimbaud. on Jan 2, 2009 14:28:10 GMT -5
You are all so detestable I cannot even bring myself to cloak my emotions with tender spirals of poetic prowess.
Well then, Kelly, whom I previously marked as a possible ally and informative, has now taken the side of dear, excitable Matilda. Lovely.
And I shall have you know that you have interrupted an immensely important session of artistic composition which has been rendered useless, as you have crushed my soul and I will likely never be able to write again.
But of course I do not own a portal of insanity as Matilda so eloquently expresses. Her wit and assumptions grow more brilliant by the day, do they not? I have partaken in visitation with my delightful darling thrice now. She has come to perambulate the sands of this desolate desert avec moi, her hair shivering in the wind like a tiny child. Our souls' star trails first intertwined this past summer dry, when wandering the bone white hills of the encampment the father sent me to, I caught glimpse of a glittering seraph in the ferment sunlight. She was a beacon on the field below, a stunningly strong and tall creature with the legs of a muscled cherub. And how, when she so tenderly bounced the firm football against her shapely knees, I swooned in the drunken afternoon. The rest of that week amongst the angels is a flood of sweet memories whose strength only increases like fine wine pressed from flamingly vibrant wildflowers, the sort so brilliant no one dares even pluck them from their dark soil: her dark brown voice thrumming against my throbbing eardrum; her long and padded fingers brushing my arm; her raw sexuality bursting out unnoticed like the insistent scent of a budding rose; her power upon the sporting field and her willingness to pull up her fallen dear when I tumbled to the ground, my spindly arms shoved by fools but longing only for the careful touch of Irene; the fleeting exposure of the small of her back, inviting my surreptitious stroke. I write her daily and receive near-novella-length epics in response, detailing her secret passion and amorous longing.
And yes, my pet name for her is Ira. I apologise for the immense confusion that has caused your pretty head.
Well then, Kelly, whom I previously marked as a possible ally and informative, has now taken the side of dear, excitable Matilda. Lovely.
And I shall have you know that you have interrupted an immensely important session of artistic composition which has been rendered useless, as you have crushed my soul and I will likely never be able to write again.
But of course I do not own a portal of insanity as Matilda so eloquently expresses. Her wit and assumptions grow more brilliant by the day, do they not? I have partaken in visitation with my delightful darling thrice now. She has come to perambulate the sands of this desolate desert avec moi, her hair shivering in the wind like a tiny child. Our souls' star trails first intertwined this past summer dry, when wandering the bone white hills of the encampment the father sent me to, I caught glimpse of a glittering seraph in the ferment sunlight. She was a beacon on the field below, a stunningly strong and tall creature with the legs of a muscled cherub. And how, when she so tenderly bounced the firm football against her shapely knees, I swooned in the drunken afternoon. The rest of that week amongst the angels is a flood of sweet memories whose strength only increases like fine wine pressed from flamingly vibrant wildflowers, the sort so brilliant no one dares even pluck them from their dark soil: her dark brown voice thrumming against my throbbing eardrum; her long and padded fingers brushing my arm; her raw sexuality bursting out unnoticed like the insistent scent of a budding rose; her power upon the sporting field and her willingness to pull up her fallen dear when I tumbled to the ground, my spindly arms shoved by fools but longing only for the careful touch of Irene; the fleeting exposure of the small of her back, inviting my surreptitious stroke. I write her daily and receive near-novella-length epics in response, detailing her secret passion and amorous longing.
And yes, my pet name for her is Ira. I apologise for the immense confusion that has caused your pretty head.