Timothy

...All in the name of Hazy?

Eloquence in any temporal gifting of accolades should be met
with a stern resolve marred only by a scathing retrospective
analysis of a permissive and engaging outcry languished with
an emotional imperative wrapped up in a soliloquy of some
inflective drudgery I can only imagine a furtively
impressive colloquialist could possibly in a snap inflective
derive some purile joy in the misery of comiserating the
joyless mob mentality of love's forlorn gold encaged cachet
with a hint of misandry barely perceptible to the
encroachment of whatever fickleness lust that one would need
to be so endured by a continual cacophony of praise to
ensure that whenever you're applauded by a legion of
feckless incontinent lollygager's that none but a voice
so salient one cannot help to be overjoyed in hearing the
expression of lust over thus ending whatever barrage of
non-sequential alliterative reasoning comes to bare
and unravel the threads of whatever romantic inclination
you've imposed upon the sensual castoff that the simple act
of kissing is reduced to a trifle imposition.

In other words. Amantes sunt amentes. and I. wouldn't have
it. any. other. way.

The lesson here, is that no matter how you slice it, sure I
and many other guys do look at porn, pics of hot chicks,
young, nubile soft flesh with the perkiest of boobs,
and that oh so waft of innocence that appeases some, the
smell of excitement from the ones who've got a closet filled
with leather accessories as to make some Dom's blush, to
the ones who simply have the biggest/smallest boobs,
thinest/curviest waist and hips.. even after all those,
"perfect" girls, the fantasy ends when you come home and
turn on the tv. nothing beats coming home and seeing that
girl who makes your heart flutter and skip a beat,
whose eyes are so deeply brown, or green, or hazel, looking
into your own and that twitch of the lips, the subtle lick
of anticipation that creeps up when you gather that long
hair into your hand clasping the back of her neck and
leaning into that soft tempestuous kiss that sends
you careening into oblivionated bliss for even a moment. I
have a dream, it's a lovely daydream, and the girl for whom
my heart pounds for affects me in ways I cannot properly
express, and in all honesty, even if I could, I don't think
I'd want to, except to say it in that momentary kiss,
stretching out time for, however, whenever you like. romance
is not dead. And I for one intend to never, ever forget it.
lust and love know no bounds, and shouldn't.