Taken by the most beautiful woman in the world - just here for the forums.
The wind rises, electric. She's soft and warm and almost weightless. Her perfume is a sweet promise that brings tears to my eyes. I tell her that everything will be all right. That I'll save her from whatever she's scared of and take her far, far away. I tell her I love her.
. . .
The silencer makes a whisper of the gunshot. I hold her close until she's gone. I'll never know what she was running from. I'll cash her check in the morning
- Sin City.
I'm back from the rabbit hole, not too worse for wear, I shall pen an ambrosial portrayal of self when I'm feeling a tad more astute as such - for now, silence does her best, O' my Joan of dark,
'I' - I'm a Signed Music Artist (please don't get weird about it) this doesn't make me better than you, I don't think, act, or adhere to any silly notions of this kind - my poop still stinks, I'm just a hard working lucky guy.
I have medical conditions, Glaucoma being one of them, I lead a normal healthy life, I just don't slam the party-scene so much - I may now be found consuming a well constructed novel whilst grinning in agree-ance and slurping my tea.
Hit-me-up, if you wish to discuss the Renaissance, particularity toward the year 1492, if not you can send any old ,scribblemania and bound I am by my love of words to respond, indeed.
