It all starts with a pulse, a pick, a lick, a pack, a bag, a star a flickering flicker of a fucking flame. It may be paranoia or sweet fixation but the thing is, the truth is, the fucking truth is that you are the fucking one that make me enjoy a good fuck. I do appreciate that, would you see your way of making me cum again? Surely, you say, my pleasure you say, and with my both hands I caress the top of your mountain, make a molehill out of a mountain, a river out of riveting rigid waters, waiting, waving and splashing in a sweet sound of surrender. Your touch, your lips are a sent sentenced to salvation, salutation, stance and softness. I miss you when you cry like a baby in my arms and play with imaginary toys taken from the Wonderland of a dream. Dream? Wipe cream to wipe away your troubled days. Enter the blue shadow of a bubble, bottle of bottomless blossom, yes, do not hesitate and devour the present gods have given your tongue: to speak the language of the ghosts, the guttural dins of a dumb heart and a belonging soul. Seas of memories mourning for a death awakening, forget it, swim with me in my internal fluids flowing in the flawless flow of fantasy, the fact is, the fucking fact is that I am all yours and that is late, that is the latter, that is the loneliness of a lonesome love. I love when you take me to that path and make me tread with my feet the bumpy roads of roar. The roaring thunders of a corridor of darkness. I love to love, I love to have and I hate to loathe and I love the love and the hate and the loath I have for you, and I want to kill you and thrill you and feel you. Is that all right? Would I put you to the trouble of making me dream again? No, never. So, let’s go, pick up your horse, I pick up my sword. Let’s ride!