The sensual curved line on the bed perfect. The eyes: burning, red, leaking for reason unknown. Private room for me and you. Darkness quenching the need to hide the lustrous actions ensued. Accept your fate, useless strumpet, unrivaled *****. Your garden grows quickly out of control. Weeds in your rose bush, fence weighed down by inherent overgrowth of emotion: fervor, passion. A kiss. The last sweetness of your lips that will ever be given or gotten. Death. A sweet relief for the world from you, Desdemona.