oil lamps and cobblestones
we dance together along decadent london streets to the top of primrose hill and watch twilight descend over the cityscape. the cold comes sweeping down upon this empathy shadowplay and we need to get home, back into the warm, if we want stay fluless. you point to the pizzeria. i cannot say no. we are not the kind of existants that derive pleasure from kicking others in the groin, but those kind who lose themselves in their own pleasure.