Well tomorrow I find out when my last day will be. One last 8 a.m. conference call.
I havent written a post it note story in awhile, so I thought now world be a good time. I wrote it at work, its still very rough but I like it. But the real test is what do you think of it?
Post-it note theater
You make my blood boil. What we have isnt love. Love is far to puritan to describe our madness. Our attraction lies somewhere between perverse lust and twisted hate.
Our sex is animalistic, too violent to be lovemaking. Moaning, sweating, impaling and devouring. You tear at my flesh with your teeth and your nails spilling my blood upon your pale skin. Lips that kiss my wounds. A razor tongue that licks away my mortal essence.
Painpleasuretormentdriving us closer to the little death. The perfect moment between life and transcendence.
Like all things, it never lasts. The ecstasy of our agony subsides and we return to the flesh.
Once again we are upon the stage. The air is pungent with bathtub Gin and Cuban leaves. Men in black tuxedos with white silk scarves and women adorned with pearls and exotic feathers await your entrance.
Before me is my other lover. I finger her ivory keys and make her moan. The lights dim, a hush falls across the room. And then there you are. A thin drape of French silk covers you, that and nothing else.
Even before a single note leaves your cherry gloss lips, you have them. The men want to be with you and the women want to fuck you. Some look away as you cast you eyes upon them, ashamed of the primal urges rushing through their bodies.
Who will it be tonight? Who has caught your eye? Man or woman, it makes no difference to me. We will consumed them, strip away their moral fiber and lay waste to their sexual repression.
A glance, a simple glance in my direction and you have made your selection. The trap is set. The prey is chosen. The game begins anew.
I havent written a post it note story in awhile, so I thought now world be a good time. I wrote it at work, its still very rough but I like it. But the real test is what do you think of it?
Post-it note theater
You make my blood boil. What we have isnt love. Love is far to puritan to describe our madness. Our attraction lies somewhere between perverse lust and twisted hate.
Our sex is animalistic, too violent to be lovemaking. Moaning, sweating, impaling and devouring. You tear at my flesh with your teeth and your nails spilling my blood upon your pale skin. Lips that kiss my wounds. A razor tongue that licks away my mortal essence.
Painpleasuretormentdriving us closer to the little death. The perfect moment between life and transcendence.
Like all things, it never lasts. The ecstasy of our agony subsides and we return to the flesh.
Once again we are upon the stage. The air is pungent with bathtub Gin and Cuban leaves. Men in black tuxedos with white silk scarves and women adorned with pearls and exotic feathers await your entrance.
Before me is my other lover. I finger her ivory keys and make her moan. The lights dim, a hush falls across the room. And then there you are. A thin drape of French silk covers you, that and nothing else.
Even before a single note leaves your cherry gloss lips, you have them. The men want to be with you and the women want to fuck you. Some look away as you cast you eyes upon them, ashamed of the primal urges rushing through their bodies.
Who will it be tonight? Who has caught your eye? Man or woman, it makes no difference to me. We will consumed them, strip away their moral fiber and lay waste to their sexual repression.
A glance, a simple glance in my direction and you have made your selection. The trap is set. The prey is chosen. The game begins anew.
SYH Begins Spring Cleaning--Archy & Mehitabel Soon to Find New Digs