pardon my bellyaching. I’m dissapointed with my writting lately. I’m all emotion and no skills. I guess it’s just a case of too little practice. Actualy, I’m getting zero practice on writting over the past few months. All my efforts have been vent on my work and a lillte bit on guitar playing and working out. Writting has been relegated to the cellar. Poor little mistress.
Her beauty is infinite. Taking her ethereal strides, she unleashes a spate of random allure. All these in a matter of seconds. But it felt like a thick fluid slow-mo for her beholders like me. An amendment in the veracity of reality. My universe, fraught with misleading paradoxes, unrelenting malice, and alienating confusions collides with hers. The product is a hybrid of two realities. Intoxicating…appalling…empty yet full. This so-called hyperexperience, for lack of a better term, eludes definition but makes perfect sense nonetheless. She is a whole new universe within her own universe. A marriage of two universes defined by perfect imperfections. The product is the apotheosis of utter sublimity. Three steps in front of me…three seconds lasting an eternity…and a thousand mannerisms. Three heartbeats that were the profoundest amongst thousands that was since the development of my fetal heart. This gives new meaning to stimulus-response psychology. I am the response. She is my stimulus. Everthing is bliss.
