On a more disturbing note I found a man that was half dead in my bed this morning.
He had a picture in his hand of a woman.
Probably one he had never even met.
She was naked and beautiful
Too beautiful
For this man to have.
There was no chance that a man half dead such as this could ever walk along side a woman of her caliber.
She was the artist, in his mind at least. When he closed his eyes he saw her face instead of the actress.
Imagined her ******* instead of the actress
Her hair instead of the actress
Her ****** instead of his hand.
But
All there was, was this half dead man with a vivid imagination.
The artist was far away
and didn’t even know about his feelings.
And so I called her and described this half dead man on my bed,
And she said
“no I don’t know him. I don’t love him neither.”
And that was it. Just enough to convince me that I was this man, not half dead ,
But dead.