Red, carmine, is the colour often left behind by borrowers of skin, serpent and pupae alike. The tissue dyerot of mordre lingers as sepsis, putrid sewage slurred within, behind, and it tastes? Of cinnamon, of the bloody heart of pomegranate gone sticky in palm, of a woman mad. To her I say, yes and no, maybe, perhaps and then. Next time, I suggest the post.
In post script: the canary ought mind the drop. The sun does rise in the west.
[Locked to Daniel W]
[He does not think he will get a response, but.]
Darling, did you enjoy yourself?