TheSleep

On a dusty old road in the middle of a rural somewhere, the sun peered through the trees. Its loving gaze peered over the top of the foliage. Cast now in its adoring eyes was the lonely cut of road pushing through the forgotten back country. On this isolated patch of civilization was the crumpled form of Finian Clay; right next to the further crumpled form of a porcupine. A porcupine that was a little too slow to avoid a passing vehicle. Needless to say, the porcupine didn't look well. Finian wasn't much better off. Finian woke up. Which was strange, seeing as he didn’t remember falling asleep. He certainly didn’t remember falling

perfection as a human need not take more than a loving inspection of a birds exposed limb for here we have function, form steely elegance with a lingering sense of envy

Gather friends! And gather close, for a story of a hummingbirds flight! The tragic tale of a feathered sampler of such carnal earthly delight. He lit her perch, a glorious figure of rich blue breast and cowl. Head full of vigor, and heart full of purpose, a peacock of a fowl. Lo, on her nest he pushed, an attempt to win her graces. But quickly did he run out of steam, and red were both their faces. So, ladies when your nest needs settling, call not the young ones first. For no matter how graceful, how powerful, how handsome: His pride will quickly burst.

I heard you had a new man from your friend in the market. I was shocked at first, then enraged. Then I wondered: Does he kiss you like I did? Does his mouth caress yours gently? Does his tongue waltz with yours in rhythm? Is his breath hot on your lips? Do his teeth slide across your red lips, pricking your nerves, making your blood pulse and flow? These are thoughts that I cannot help but allow to slither in the reptilian base of my brain. A place draped in silence for my most private desires. For all the resentment that I harbor, all the moments where I have wanted nothing more than to ravage your skin with torrid words; I hope somewhere

I want you as a fine novel. Leather bound in loving care. Caressed in a soft hide, lovingly primal. Gloriously sophisticated. A decadent tension along your spine masterfully placed by artisan hands. Something that creaks with the pressures of my able fingers. I want to pour over your pages. To revel in your text, get lost in your phrasing. To feel you at my fingertips, have you bared for my eyes, to explore your language with a willing tongue. I won't miss a thing you have to offer for I am a patient, able student. Only to eager to incorporate you into my own works. To bend your materials to my own desires and context. I