'Tis desecration. Will thee know it I pray. I tell you, I will pray. May He bless now my fingers as blessed He us in the limbo had I not known existed.
A bed, a bedspread, a rod of iron - a small cosh there on my chest. Were my eyes open for all the minutes counted I in these fingers of mine. He was above me in both connotations, whilst descried I the pale pallor of the ceiling over my head.
A textile - many kerchiefs sewn in stitches that still wore the lint as if out of my baby's bonnet, no tapestry nor any careful craft of hand either, but seamed on edges from where jut out the fringes - golden, violet, and green. You see my love, that was my futon would I find to sleep on.
What profanity must it be if worked I a nuance in the mind. Oh dear Holy Lord! Must Thee condemn me with perdition will that hell not be aware of;
What blasphemy it ought to be if expressed I my denial in words. Will it not oh God? So came the revolt from my red thighs - my blood from underneath, my blood within, my blood on his trews - and I, oh I burnt in quiet agony of my own kind.
On my red veil was it. Yes, I have it still in the sight of my eyes when from between the spaces of the louvre of my door, beheld I eyes staring into mine. Was it you Nick?
'Twas on my red veil I can tell when shook he my corpus in thuds of clamorous blows, but I saw a lightning discharge its spark on me laterally. Did you see it too?
Oh my messiah on this ground hath my feet touched the cold soil of one to many times, may thee tell me for...