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It was the day he saw the tear like blue jade weeping from the flames of my despair. In the quiet meadows of my anguish, I had carelessly allowed a plumb of smoke to rise from my secrete fires.
I remember that day I was looking out the window and I told my driver how hopeless it all was. He shook his head and sobbed with me.
What more could I do to make them love me for me? I had just crushed my Armani sunglasses under the heel of my Werner Kerns with the turn in the Enchufla Doble. I had done it again in the dim haze of the ballroom, sweeping another off her feet with my rehearsed charms and chariot rides through my estates.
This could not, cannot go on. That very day I drove into the junkyard lot and demanded to buy the worst they had that runs.
I drove that jalopy of a 72 Caprice Classic that day in a desperate attempt to find the love of my life in a torn Black Sabbath T-shirt, long underwear pants, a belt buckle that said Satan, and a pair of rubber boots.
...I had rushed it. I could find no one.
After a few months I had almost forgotten like a dispised dream. Then I saw her. She was like the dawn after crawling from the depths of Torca del Cerro del Cuevon. The cave shadows of the night could not bear the brightness of the torches she cast with her eyes. She was like a fire dancer moving gracefully though gloom but to reveal the sun behind the mountain. She has become my secrete fire.
However she was not to see me, not now. I called my other driver to follow her.
After watching her for a month I knew when and where to find her. I knew the way her dress would cling in the wind. I knew her glances towards every cardinal call and feminine cautions at the shrill sounds of machinery. Finally I rumbled towards her and and tried to open the passenger door. After failing, I quickly, in one smooth motion, kicked away the door on the street. She seemed as shocked as I was and I had to sharply tell her several times to get in.
We didn't talk much but I held her hand; it was truly my hand with none of my charming disguises. I wanted to evoke an image of a simple man picking wild flowers to give impulsively to a beautiful woman and told her that I hopped upon the first white horse to be had. I would never normally hot wire this 72 Caprice. I told her I was a street person just waiting for the right girl to make me a better man.
After taking her home I just did not realize the next step. I did not plan for this. When should I tell her that I am not a substance abusing, street person named Willie?
It was the day he saw the tear like blue jade weeping from the flames of my despair. In the quiet meadows of my anguish, I had carelessly allowed a plumb of smoke to rise from my secrete fires.
I remember that day I was looking out the window and I told my driver how hopeless it all was. He shook his head and sobbed with me.
What more could I do to make them love me for me? I had just crushed my Armani sunglasses under the heel of my Werner Kerns with the turn in the Enchufla Doble. I had done it again in the dim haze of the ballroom, sweeping another off her feet with my rehearsed charms and chariot rides through my estates.
This could not, cannot go on. That very day I drove into the junkyard lot and demanded to buy the worst they had that runs.
I drove that jalopy of a 72 Caprice Classic that day in a desperate attempt to find the love of my life in a torn Black Sabbath T-shirt, long underwear pants, a belt buckle that said Satan, and a pair of rubber boots.
...I had rushed it. I could find no one.
After a few months I had almost forgotten like a dispised dream. Then I saw her. She was like the dawn after crawling from the depths of Torca del Cerro del Cuevon. The cave shadows of the night could not bear the brightness of the torches she cast with her eyes. She was like a fire dancer moving gracefully though gloom but to reveal the sun behind the mountain. She has become my secrete fire.
However she was not to see me, not now. I called my other driver to follow her.
After watching her for a month I knew when and where to find her. I knew the way her dress would cling in the wind. I knew her glances towards every cardinal call and feminine cautions at the shrill sounds of machinery. Finally I rumbled towards her and and tried to open the passenger door. After failing, I quickly, in one smooth motion, kicked away the door on the street. She seemed as shocked as I was and I had to sharply tell her several times to get in.
We didn't talk much but I held her hand; it was truly my hand with none of my charming disguises. I wanted to evoke an image of a simple man picking wild flowers to give impulsively to a beautiful woman and told her that I hopped upon the first white horse to be had. I would never normally hot wire this 72 Caprice. I told her I was a street person just waiting for the right girl to make me a better man.
After taking her home I just did not realize the next step. I did not plan for this. When should I tell her that I am not a substance abusing, street person named Willie?
After they wrap up the reality show you signed up for.
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