what it gave me:
In your absence I find other forms of amusement.
Your face is like an imperfectly shaven tennis ball.
Your eyelids refract the turgid limnations of an eel trapped in flickering cinematographic paralysis.
Its a far far better thing I do than to require that you find me a hammer and pummel me with all due diligence.
Your higher cerebrations are most post-mortem.
I love your eyes, but only with ketchup.
You wear your breasts like a man with an uncontrollable bulge in his apartment.
Entranced by the bitter harmony of your lips, I gaze beyond reason to find the oasis of your ruptured soul.
Oh!, how you inflict me with wounds of paranoia and desire.
and the best:
You are the sound of one lip kissing.
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