moonmilk, take a taste, and we walk in unison. my back touches your front, and we possess a secret love, the strongest of all loves. the english language does not have enough words for love. there are too many kinds to document but she cries cries cries, face full of lines drawn from crying. because love is not allowed in this government, you may not be a writer. He was a secret writer, and now he has been snuffed out for his beauty. A flame that would ignite the souls of the city. So she cries. moon milke, wet and sweet, and we desire what we do not understand. The magic. suppose I were to offer you my hands, and you were to take them- would that be enough? I think it would. it would be enough to pretend that the tree I pass on drayton st. is a lover from a past life that waits for me. So I acknowledge it. I look back at it as I walk away, creating a dramatic moment. I look back again. It is still waiting. moon milk, we lick it from our fingers, I do not know its properties, but it is essence. it is everything that we see as goodness.