He is a fine painting
The delicate hand of Nordic genetics
painted on a symmetrical face
His face, although youthful, gives away a spiritual antiquity
His mind is filled with sand carrying gales
from the great dunes of knowledge facing the ever-wise ocean eternally. churning up new grains of sand from her deep bed

The windy world of well-stoked book shelves pass through his mind and turn into lukewarm water for those with thirst to drink

He zips through the world on a flying fox
The line tightly and stably fixed to an inbound destination
Draining girls like cigarettes, each one long and slender providing a fix and  moment of satisfaction
His heart radiates to his hands and he uses them as noble puppets, even missing two digits

He crusades into the world with a sword of passion and a shield of God's fortune
Tightening up the loose screws in the worlds clock
To keep it ticking for everyone at gaze at

He fights, he wins, he will be remembered long after his atoms cut themselves into dust

He receives a passionate kiss from nature filling his soul with passion

Until he finds his white bowl, table cloth, soup with a dessert-spoon-keychain