the essence of a trait of man
the essence of a trait of man. do we really understand the inner workings of lust? why do we feel the need to hold the mere flesh of a lady its a baffling thought. was it for warmth, or a stake in her ownership? another random question for the ages, are we powerless to the sway of the junk of her trunk? closed eyes and a smile across the face, he inhaled deeply and slowly, the explosion of scents in the room took him up for a short ride up to the high heavens and back down to earth. the pieces of whole flesh moved around with beady eyes, unaware of his meek presence and he took it well, probably better than the paranoia he was used to in class. he walked across the neon inspired lit room to mark his presence, make his presence felt, whatever close enough to the territorial strut lions do but he failed and looked out of place in a decor of a room that would be overwhelmed with sleaze in a movie. no such flamboyance here, though. he eked out a stone look, tried a composed calm, but he clamed up even when he approached the bartender. he looked at the drink on the left hand of the bartender, a slick green and cherry top and a shot glass to hold the bright colours.. colours that sparkled under the dim spotlight lined around the round edge of the false ceiling. should i order the shot just to get the attention i want? should i join the game? all these sidenotes, instruments to pick up as naturally as the guitar, seduction galor'e. simply put, a luxury of human advancement, or would you rather, it the stink that cries irony and superficialism?