Infiltrated. Insecure. Deflowered by Demons, the shame that is no shame festers. The stench of Sin permeates, lust lingers. There is nothing left unmarred. Curiosity carries on its rapturous rape of the mind, leaving zygotes of Adventure in its wake. Infiltrated and impatient, Adventure feeds on feelings of contentedness, drains your sense of home. Action is the broken condom that led to this precarious predicament. Cycles of development; days, weeks, of tedious planning. Once you have it, you have it for life. It swells inside you until you can hardly bare it. It forces its way through you, eager to bloom outwardly. To be the heart on your sleeve, the photos in your album, and your legacy left behind.
- Letters From Somebody