La Douleur Exquise rotting in the August swelter: the pungent stench of freshly decomposing chimera, so irreversibly close.
Love Under Glass
La Douleur Exquise expertly caged under a floe of diaphanous ice, neatly displayed for the moronic gawking masses, P. T. Barnum style.
Romance Buried In Perpetuum
La Douleur Exquise entombed eternal; the hazy, far-away memory of which barely elicits the firing of a lone axon; it too falls victim to the ever-deepening glacial abyss of eventual existential malaise. Languor and jade are all that remain.
I find myself much tougher than I ever imagined, but far more fragile than anyone else has yet to realize. Is callousness the only emotion left for the chewed-up and spit-out set? When does inevitable torpor take over? Evil sucks a lot of energy, eventually the caloric intake can't match the output, like an "I Love Lucy" episode of malevolence, leaving only barely-breathing lassitude and a belly full of cheap candy.
La Douleur Exquise Revisited: But a Bittersweet Memory
The oxidation of a heart, blistering; crumbling, flaking away. Painfully slow. Each beggarly stratum sloughing away under the threat of the feeblest breeze. Like a dying serpent, pitifully shedding its scaled and long-ago used up skin in effort to wring a whisper more life out of its forlorn circumstance. The nidorous stench of rotting romance long gone with the algid freeze of winter; all that remains is the red-brown stain of crestfallen hopes. Leapt to their deaths off a vertiginous widow's cliff unto the shards of jagged earth and stinging saline hundreds of feet below. Into the depths of an oceanic Hell, no longer brilliant cerulean, but an acrid and matte stone-grey. As moribund and cadaverous as can be afforded to a scarcely palpitating heart.
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