She seems to be, this precious little pretty spectacular Italian thing, wherein every single ogle-eyed audience in standing enraptures itself solidified to simply grab one fast chance, yet she simply, perilously chose me

Because quick-wit intrigue aside an indelible ink spill most cherish-ably shall fill her soothing parts

High art, indeed…
And she twists this settled – no less horrendously sexually stressed – cigarette against her angst-ridden self, permitting to imagine just my conversational lips

The friendly translator explains only so very wonderfully much

Rather than anything else really, this one Irishman her altogether impenetrable delve – because age and time and queer-some logistics shall forever render it once more and for an umpteenth time in his life an irrational impossibility

Motherf**king bogglingly bothersome complexities that simply have to please him and beautifully flee

Sink or swim – he has to strap himself in and needs to choose to be

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