The red death would not kill me quickly.

As i stand, i am a countervail to my purported transmogrification. Erstwhile consecrations have taken to an otiose fashion, and a backseat to incensed ritual brought about by the redolence that lingers upon your kingdom (of equivocal nature as to whom has raided).

Be gentle darling, for my heart ruptures even now as i watch the sun melt beyond myopic horizons (as does my orphic desire to someday have someone else walk in your stead). Oh, but i am not contrite, and i have no reason to perceive this as anything more than coquetry masqueraded in heartfelt philia.
Thereunto i ask, with invested poignance, to what end?

Till rapture, peradventure.

~ by cryhavok on April 14, 2008.