â i can awaken things inside you that have been sleeping all your life. â
TVD BOOK SENTENCES / NOT ACCEPTING.
ah, but this maiden â this minx. she who walks with amphisbaenae unflinching, CARMINE  &  DRIPPING WITH CRUOR. how easily the others name the cardinal curves of her mere claret  â  how much malacissation she bears at their hands. but heâ he has never looked at her & seen anything less than ACELDAMA. he has never heard her ariose articulation  & not thought of war-horns. how could he ?  she, concupiscence incarnate, a creature that hungers in his very bones. consuming, conenose. has he ever known anything but the wrox ?  has he ever known anything but the fox ?  &   indeed, âneath all of that beauty, she is all beast, a vulpine teratism limned in an hundred shades of muliebrity, & heâ  oh, by all of the gods, by all of his fathers & mothers, he adores her for it. Â
but pravity yet remains his purview.  is this not the right of ravaging ?  are not war rooms the penetralia of the perverse ?  there is naught within him that remains somnolescent, not now. he is hunger, he is horror. HE IS THE PORTENT ESPOUSED BY EVERY WARNER.  & she, ohâ she is the tephrosis he will walk into gladly, madly.   ââ   her halitus ghosts over a cheekbone of rimose marble, lips close but not close enough, never close enough. he, a naufrage still burning. she, the rush of deluge o'er a lethe-limned lazaret. this is a pathology in starvation, always, fissicostated & florisugent in their devouring. how does the man become monster, you ask ?  how does the god become glutton ?  like this, i say. like this. here, a mythos most maudlin ; a tale strewn âtwixt sparsile souls, empyrean & eternal. AH, THIS MURDER MOST FOUL. AH, THIS LUPINE, LONGING HOWL. âneath his grip, he makes of her hips rosariums ; this is the only nurturement he knows, the only naissance to be bred from his weltering digits, from a sepulchre yet to be stitched.Â
â  oh, can you now ?  â   ridence, romance ; is that what thee would name this ?  A LOVE AFFAIR LIMNED LANIARY ?  /  metacarpals creep southward, to the vernal velvet of her backside, where his digits maculate as they do nothing else.    â  you know, i think iâd quite like to see that.  â