Strong brew. Amber race in pillars of wet smoke beckoning the air above. The understanding behind 1000 lies of truth's wisdom. Which really, (side note), wasn't wisdom at all. Just the pondering of adult pubescent insight. You could call it virgin if you like, despite it's age. It is what it is and always will be...sadly.
In a run to further the commitment between man and bottle, fear and numbness. Lips strain toward another sip, and another, and yet another. Pouring rain, slipping down esophageal passages toward oblivion. Well, not so much, just transformation. Is that what he's after? To become something else? What depth of pain would need be experienced to truly abandon all original thought...action and idiosyncrasy. If she looked long enough. Just stepped outside the normal patience level that brought her into Love, she might see an opulence not fashioned by the hands of man. But by the artists of this existence. And he too, would be satisfied in his embrace...(cont?)
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