My body is an erotic poem, a broken garden of tears. The libido has been fabled into amorous lullabies, sonatas of a sighing Beethoven sighing on a piano. I live in the garden of bewitched desires. My nights have been a lonely bed. I am a lover’s slave. I will reincarnate to her passions in loving desires. I long to lick her flower. I love to be in a submissive position. I am kneeling down with her thighs straddled on to my shoulders. As I lick her melodious orifice, I long to hear her moan. Her moaning will give me thousand poems. Yes, I long to lick her passionate hole, lying in her bottom. My tongue is an infinite orgiastic pansy of cunnilingualizing. Woman, why are you hard hearted like a burning ore in a furnace? Why don’t you agree to the incantations of my passion? Women of the world why do you make me so deprived? I wonder why there’s not a single woman in the world who can love me for satisfying her body. Why am I not finding a perfect woman? I have tried and tried countless dating sites, but the end result was sour grapes!
What’s lottery paper today will become the magic wand of money tomorrow.
Money can help me pursue an enlightened, hedonistic individualism.
The poverty of money cannot dethrone the richness of language to existentialize my being.
The cross of grace and not luck can alone save me.
Alas, how much I wish my body to be gratified.
I hope in my life everything will start falling in place.