If the water in the spring was to swallow the monster after the shadow lashed in the woods then the grass weaving when the wind kissed the neck of the virgin, the little sweat on the back of the curve she bends to subdue a strange feeling: take me to your cave and swallow my passion until the desert is a sea of foliage the thorns turn into flowers the ice turns into blankets of love caressing your skin with cotton balls of passion light the fire under her ass to akin the flavour of stagnant flamboyant meticulous sadistic extravagant impulsive uncompromising instinctive camouflage.
If it doesn’t ruin your appetite to appease my vanity, then why do you exist in such a shallow banal bland dull form? Do you realize that they can create a robot that is less predictable than you?
