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.
They left Oriental Glow in late twilight. The warm embrace of faint rose fragrances lulling about wove oriental dreams. Marcus’ glinting pupils envisioned the evening’s mysterious denouement.
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.
Against walls of light, I scream. Life inside my body’s mute cells is happening in continuous flow, and I howl and bellow. Cells burst open, unified in my primordial cataclysm. I hear galaxies gone mad—love is crazy. Universes, in their stillness, simmer crazy.
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