It was perfect. Clear skies with a chance of moon light. Water reflecting a secrecy which scent trunks provided. Perfect bodies locked together. The most beautiful teeth were revealed that night yet they couldn't bite. The heavy smell of shopping mall cologne penetrating skin and bones. Claws of a monster handling what could be a human form so unreflective, so devoid of awareness. only the immediate mattered. Only the material, ignoring the form. So unaware of shape, so ignorant of affection. The air gained weight as gravity pulled with a newfound strength; life wasn't always a mistake. It didn't have to be tonight. Stop.
Lady Francon withstood years of self-sacrifice as service to her self alone. Love is selfish. It is the biggest, perhaps only statement of our existence. It vindicates my existence to me, to me alone. Because I love you, I act. Because I love you, I want you. Your stuff interests me only because I love you. It's no selfless interest as our society likes to claim, no, it is rather the biggest display of selfishness we tend to play. Well, I don't love you. Give me celibacy, give me death; rather that than the worked perfection of your earthly self. You're a travesty to our kind. Through your beauty your ignorance shines; funny how you look so brilliant at times. No, I don't want you, clear that up. I'd only fuck if it be for love, if it be love alone even if I never hold that one artiste I've really loved. Architect of situations, imagery, sounds and human form. So few are the first-handers who rise to shape our earth, only one like that I can ever love; only for such a damned soul could I ever fuck.
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