How do I begin, pray?
Do I tell thee of the weather that isn't as glorious as permit a written analogy or climatic discourse? Sodden with a sepia aura, the winter seeps into my bones.
Winds are icy with a tendency to send frostbite into your veins and permeate crevices of your chest, cajoling a warm heart with glacial finger tips.
Should I speaks of a slothful Sunday gone buy, leaving an ashen Monday in its wake, that which sends lethargic bolts of torpid electricity into a system inanimate which drowsily then begins to squint about the house in an apathetic recollection of lost senses, inhaling a panoramic view of noticeable imperfections littered as weekend gift?
Dare I talk of a somber today, with naught a promise of droll incident. Embodying a perfected Sisyphean quality to itself, the day shall churn on, grinding to not a halt for even a second relapsed on prolonged blink.
Grounding in turn an every lost moment, that though pitifully impossible to recover is easily repeated in exactness or copy played to perfection.
However I'd rather just talk about the different ways I've learnt each day to take your name, suffixing, at times prefixing fragile threads of amorous appellations that elicit moans, at times whispering laughs when a knowing smile is attached to these private jokes.
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