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
