From a distance of three feet, I stand and see. It looks just like a montage of confetti, glitter, paper colored blue, red and green.
Yes, can I be not any more certain about it. Can I not.
I repeat. Are you listening? It looks like a montage of sand on the shoreline, slipped from the palm of one foremost - only now drifted by the the high tide yonder. Ah! how the waves hightail! Swish of a wind and there they are gone!
Appending the montage is an auburn sun on a red sky. I swelter and my skin shows it overtly with drops of sweat behind my neck. Oh God! I feel warm.
'Tis red hot and I sweat a little more. I have more to tell. Tell me, art thou willing to hear?
There now it seeks fugitive behind the cumuli that stretch the ambience. Huh! How erotic 'they' say. How cowardly scream I.
Screamed I with my blood incited to clot in my lungs. Must thee hath heard it. Did you?
So art the lineaments of the collage you two compose. Broken bedstead in between your hands and legs; her negligee torn so well that seems to me she is swathed by drapery; and the voile of the net, has that constituted the divine abode of many in their first nights, demands sutures in a number of ninety nine. Hah! This shipwreck but oh good Lord! what a design!
May I tell and never confide in you two. How can I anyway? May thee let me know if thou ascertain...