A woman is to be played like a maestro plays the Stradivarius. He closes his eyes. He softly searches for the perfect note. Her skin color tells him how to proceed.
The blush of a rose is the lust of a wave crashing to the shore floating the foamy fulness of her passion to the surface. When he finds that perfect note, she cannot help but release it and discover life's meaning.
I wonder, does the violin feel the same rapture as the violinist when he coaxes a pure and perfect note from its heart?
The blush of a rose is the lust of a wave crashing to the shore floating the foamy fulness of her passion to the surface. When he finds that perfect note, she cannot help but release it and discover life's meaning.
I wonder, does the violin feel the same rapture as the violinist when he coaxes a pure and perfect note from its heart?
Last edited:

