SMITTEN: lunacy glue for the soul.

vortex of chunky desire slathers hearty tangerine sauce down the wrists of the maid. to yawn over thrown dishes of slithering leaves and windowsills, a marvelous deed indeed. ultra precise words and carob chips make wonderful strides of vanity and electricity. spindles quiver in lofty branches, wanting to live, sucking on lips and noodles, only to be filled with reverberating quadratric terms. moss creeping up cedars and legs: invaders from a place much cleaner than this.

AND I SHALL CALL THIS ONE..."I smell cabbage."
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