It's a perfumed elegance and grace, things that weren't taught, the real sunflower in a sea of artificial sunflowers, digital bloodred skies and a birthday gathering in a pine forest. A canopy of storm-colored birds, terminally sick cobra lily and the hanging lemon orchids dot the shadows of an oily black pond.
It's sweet and romantic, white-shoes and white-estates, white-class society, freshly combed hair, sing-song voices and the girl at the cafΓ© really was as slender as a candle, I like the caramel colored ones, rows of boxes and painted portraits, servants and their empty glasses, blandly standing there like farm animals frozen solid in the snow.
I love when some lady of the manor type pulls you aside and drowns you in her avalanche of perfume, she asks about your career or your marriage you don't have, I enjoy telling them I eat pills all day and annoy black people on a hip hop site, and yes, I remain unmarried if you can believe that, lady, I do fancy mega-muscled weightlifter Bulgarian hardcore lesbian beast women, they seem like they'd give good back rubs while we are both naked and watching professional bowling on ESPN. I say all of that then I stare blankly at them. They will bristle, give you either an expressionless look followed by a "I have to go" fake exasperated exit or a look of horror and swift exit.
I prefer the horror. It's a Trolls' life, bitch. Is what it is, cuh. π