I'm feeling strangely mellow.  As if I've been drugged.  Or shot by one of Cupid's arrows.  But that can in no way be.  I move too quick.  I duck too fast for such arrows to ever scathe me. 

We live in a sibling society where the prototypical puer aeternus trysts with the typically proto puella aeterna in cam-recorded gardens of unprivate delights.  What a sight.  See her slither in passionate expectation.  See him quiver under erotic usurpations.  If only they'd run away together into the night...

I'd like to speak with clarity and confidence.  But then you'd understand.  You'd understand that I never really had a license to carry that gun.  You know, the one I put to your head with a bullet called 'obsession' in the chamber.  And I squeezed, gently squeezed until non-desire was dead.  And then, remember, I chambered a hollow-point round of 'sensation' for myself and incredibly blew away my own heart.  O happiness...how happiness was.

I could run away from that trouble on the horizon-that rumbling arising from yonder, that dust being stirred up afar.  I could, but I won't.  Instead, trouble will find me its double.  It will see me and be sick.  Its sense of doom, its premonition that the end is near will find fruition in me.  Cause I sting like a butterfly!   hahahaha