Countryside spirit. SOIL I
Illusive brass hues, agleam in phantasmagorical woods, filaments sprouting to light. Liquid breaths, airy dews—desires stirred by whiffs from the fields. Merry daisies captured on canvas in immaculate expectation, dense…
Illusive brass hues, agleam in phantasmagorical woods, filaments sprouting to light. Liquid breaths, airy dews—desires stirred by whiffs from the fields. Merry daisies captured on canvas in immaculate expectation, dense…
Her love story street. Mim, though, passes by without a mere glance along its stale muteness. Her love lies dead in her soul, so let the dead rest in peace….
A Sensual Novel 9 Ballet is Chapter 9 of my carousel romance Traveling True: A Sensual Novel. . . . “What are you weeping for?” Mim twirls around to face…
After a sad summer, numbing fall ensues. Mim sleepwalks on city streets hoping Anton’s car passes by and their love story stops it. When the car pulls at the curb, she falls in, blinded by love. Their bodies together, in a love halo, a membrane that, oh my God, bursts open, and the fall outside sets between them.
The Mirror is Chapter 7 of my first novel, a sensuous romance published in 2017 as Traveling True. As powerful as the road, the mirror is a symbol that reflects, absorbs, distorts, and transports….
Lonely in Stefan’s apartment, Mim types to numb pain caused by his gangrening mistake. Caught between his love and her hate, Mim recalls Stefan’s guilty dressing-up ceremonial, his other mistake, and his heartbreaking, loving gaze – a grief hieroglyph.
The car skids onward neighing, a bitten mare, then comes to a stuck halt. Horns, brakes, a ragged doll thrown away. A last spasm squats her memory and the flux of remembrances gushes out of Mim, toxic and stinking. The stench also gushes through Anton’s nostrils and mouth and glassy eyes, transfixed. He mumbles something, is scolding her. Yes, Mim has misbehaved again.
Fragrances weighed heavier as they walked, hand in hand, along dormant gardens in these Elysian Fields on Terra. Es-terra, Marcus thought. “Estera,” he said and renewed his embrace, still harder. She cemented in him. Now, that was terra-py.
Her nude slouching, thighs thick, eyelids shut, Carola embodies Klimt’s symbol, ha. Paul says goodnight and departs, leaving her nude mute on the settee. Of all painted nudes, Danaë waiting.
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