the lost man chronicles
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the air swells blue smoke

One of my favorite activities of late is quite simply one we take for granted everyday—breathing. Taking deep invigorating breaths, so that suddenly it feels as if a new life has invaded my weary and worn mortal shell.

Oh, and how I can tell that I owe all this to love.

Ah, but love is such a two-way street! For not only is it evolving into a renewing life force within me, but certainly it is becoming the bane of my good health as well! For I have had an insatiable appetite lately! I have been compelled to devour food which I usually quite easily avoid. Sweets have lured me like sirens with my name painted crimson across their breasts, and I have been all but helpless, succumbing to their high-pitched temptation.

Admittedly, I secretly pine for love to go away on a trip to another continent, so that I might regain my senses before this gluttony manifests itself into a more substantial form, one which I will have to carry around with me everywhere.

Oh, but surely you know I jest with you my nightingale, for as long as you give me the supernatural energy to make vigorous love with you, I will not need worry too much about the calories and the extra girth that will keep me warm through winter.

Alas, this hunger is carrying over into other realms of experience as well. For I will tell, yes, I will be honest with you, if only to merely amuse you with an innocuous tale of lascivious desire…

When I went to go pick up a party contract from a local jazz-infused eatery across the street yesterday, Annie, my liaison, was there to meet me with paper in hand.

This was only the second time I saw her, but each time there has been a grand undeniable pang of attraction, a tangy and foolish desire which I would never aspire to dare indulge, because this is business, and the twain should never intertwine. Regardless, I pined, and the pain moved me again.

And albeit I kept this prudent principle in the farthest reaches of my mind, for a moment I was blind to it, as she stood next to, and I readily imagined, inclined toward, me. For there was this feline-like heat that emanated an estral warmth which I swear I could smell. The detection of her ripe allure literally took but a few seconds, a moment in which I had leaped over all the usual delusions and wanton conclusions that wayward men make.

As she handed me the paper, with the artful practice of a salesman, she complimented (me on) my clothes. And even though it was all just part of the deal, I wanted to supercede the superficial act of marketing-in-motion, swim in her ocean, and steal her away from all the artifice by confessing:

"Oh, Annie, must you add flattery to your arsenal of charms? I've been meaning to tell you this Ms. O'Hara, but I am enamored by the intoxicating fragrance you exude, a very personal scent it seems, one that manifests itself not only as one of my dreams and awakening, but quite palpably into the heat that carries it to me, redolently off your fair and scarlet-freckled skin."

And thus love, with all your magnanimous gestures not only do you console me with serenity and verve, but you graciously hand me the gift of lust as well. Perhaps, not a pique of the sixth sense which I might act upon, but certainly a lickerish spell which makes all the air swell with the blue smoke of your electromagnetism and energy!


"Woman, in the picture language of mythology, represents the totality of what can be known. The hero is the one who comes to know. As he progresses in the slow initiation which is life, the form of the goddess undergoes for him a series of transfigurations: she can never be greater than himself, though she can always promise more than he is yet capable of comprehending. She lures, she guides, she bids him burst his fetters. And if he can match her import, the two, the knower and the known, will be released from every limitation." ~ The Hero With a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell

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