Every waking instance fed his thoughts, searching for higher ground he lay hold of every smile, every glance, and every word. He slowly probed twisted memories and ancient echoes to reconcile a genuine love scarcely enjoined.

Every waking moment he passed his life away contemplating a dead goddess. He sought after her dying words, her decaying body, her lifeless breasts. He slowly probed twisted memories and ancient echoes to reconcile a life long given over to fate.

But in her presence, those thoughts were made manifest in accordance with a beatific vision. He took himself as a dweller in sanctified grounds, counted himself amongst the most blessed, and foresaw Love herself.

In his mind she lay awake, each breath causing the rise and fall of lascivious breasts, yet not for the next moment, but as the last moment. He found himself valuing each dream, each image, in accordance with the deathbed.

He had loved her for a year; he knew from the first meeting of her zest for life; shortly after he discovered her lust for love; he recently experienced her enormous capacity for love; at this moment, his love was most genuine. But in truth, he stood as a lonesome sojourner meandering within a translucent reality of the unforgiven and unforgotten.

He had wandered for a year, lifelessly changing shape, form, and mind to suit his next dying wishes. After failing his purest ideology he sought a new fascination, one in which he could cast his fate within the mortal realm. His newest fancy was this illusion, which enthralled him so that he could not help imagining this world as the best of all possible worlds. In truth, he stood as this lonesome changeling, meandering within an opaque reality of lost souls.

"Oh, how her presence feed my thoughts," he said, "as if through every smile, every glance, and every word I find nourishment for the last surviving sense of the spirit."

“If only my odds pay off on this roulette of life,” he thought, “as if marriage were a sanctimonious dream played out til I hit the world’s greatest payoff.”

Oh, and how greatly and fully did he feed. He recounted each moment as vital nourishment until new sustenance arrived. Had there been any reality beyond his damned journey, with her, he found a glimpse. "Be there anything spiritual," he said, "my only ability to grasp it lies in such a glimpse."

Oh, how his life rushed on. He felt as if every idea took shape within a hundred mile per hour windstorm, blowing away before the next even began to manifest itself. Had he any strength, with her, he wished it all away. “Be there any hope in this shitstorm,” he thought, “my only ability to hold tight is in such a gamble.”

He waited patiently.

He panted fanatically.

Yet, de facto, he could not rest content knowing patience as his sole resource for requited love. Yearning for higher ground he asked, "Of what use is it to remain the beholder of a solitary glimpse?" “Indeed, it is in this glimpse that patience finds its principle, even its continuance,” he reasoned, “but if it all be in vain, imagined, unrequited; then patience betrays me.”

Yet, de facto, some will still held sway; he could not waste his life away, merely panting, wishing. Holding on to dear life, a life long caught in the wind, he asked, “Of what use is this woman to me?” “Indeed, I have long drifted,” he began, “and this solitary game is but a continuance of other such lonesome games.”

He had found solace in patience, that virtue was a genuine man's hearth and home, yet his doubts persisted, “If I lay dreaming, and my glimpse be but a simple twitch of the sleeper's eye, then would patience be of any value? If this be the case, I might preserve this love, absorb every moment, dissect every memory, and unify the moment by composing elegiacs in her honor.”

He had found life in panting, that vice was a weak man’s fantasy, and yet this thoughts continues, “If I lay dreaming, and this moment is but a nightmare, might I not awake? If this be the case, I may cast down my rampant gambles and move on, forgetting every instance, and unify my life around the now ringing alarm.”

Yet lust, in the very least, a sensual glimpse, betrayed patience for action. Her lascivious lips, imperceptible eyes, and immaculate voice slithered through his memories.

Yet lust, in the very least, a fantastic nightmare, betrayed panting for action. Her lascivious lips, imperceptible eyes, and immaculate voice slithered out of his memory.