Slip of the tongue, a spill of vocabulary. A new decision in the fingers attached to the soul not just the brain, a pounding of irrationality and nothing to do with sexuality but the sex would be good. The swift motion of undressing everything showing from skin to ambition. Do you have the passion? What time is it in this mansion, that is housing the ugliest mass of prohibited things once locked in the vault now rolling in the flour. Cook me up an explanation and dismiss the fact that the bottles are empty while the tongue goes rubber, the mind expands, filling up with things that should be framed. Scare the living daylights out of me, I want the deathly darkness to invite me in and keep me there. Not all is lost and the things that remain, you want to hide away under cushions and forget them just the same. No basis. All bias. We cannot eat this meal in peace. I'm starving for pieces of you, not all of you.