I prefer shadows and fog shrouds over radience of sunlight.

I dream to the tune of lazy, hazy jazz saxophone serenades.
These dreams wander halphazardly between romance and lust as the mood swings from brooding blue meloncholy to violet streaks of contentment.

The sticky sweetness fills my cup until it is half-empty. I soak up every drop, pausing to linger over the tangy scent that remains.

It is dark, and I am thirsty again.