Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Writing game 4
She was nice and hot, true for my love. Her tits are soft as the winds of May and the warm nights and days of May seem to move to fast away. The sun might be bright, but the dark clouds of night comes swift at hand when night brings down and she no more seem so hot and nice. Her looks and grace will not fade over time and death will not claim her will of life, she will ever and ever be a warm and women made for love, as long as man can see and think.
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Sort of in-between the voice of a stalker fantasizing about her and a love-letter to her. Maybe better to do one or the other, not both tones in one text. Better also to stick to one tense, preferably the present...
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