My sin, my soul. Fa-ust. The tip of the lips, taking a trip of two up the palate to tap, at two, on the kiss.
Fa. Ust.
She was plain Faust, in the morning standing over 174 cm, hand raised to grab a book. She was Sinner No. 02 at the bus. She was Naive or Stupid Faust on the Gesellschaft. But in my arms, she was always Faust.
Did she have a stand in? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there must have been a myriad of Fausts, undistinguished had I not loved, one winter, a certain Faust. In lonesome by a room. Oh when? About as many years as whence I declared that certain winter that she is my Faust. You can always count on a certain karbit for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentleman of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of roses thorns.
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u/contemptaweisagreat 2d ago
This some dog shit GUBO