Twas solemn entrance of you into the hall of my language.
The freedom that made my behaviour sick with innuendos hardly being truely analized. These were odorous walls of cut-bud flowers, oozing viscid fragrance of the decadence.
`Twas smoke... full of pretantion to be inhaled, to be squeezed in lungs by portions of potions.
`Twas dawn... As rosy as the shame of being seen once and remembered
forever...

весна, 2016