In the clumsy script of a man strangled at all ends, he had scrawled pages and pages of accurate accounts on the devotions of his towards this one strange woman, so stifling he found he could not understand it quite, for her eyes were like two glinting coals shafted in the midst of a paleness so unnatural it seemed almost a pallor for the dead, and he could never find such an inch of alacrity in that dismal indifference of hers, and she was so amazingly frozen that he thought she must have been woven out of synthetic allusions of brass, glinting off light like a pool of gold but when touched, so pitifully prone to the deep etchings of life’s impersonal habits.
But yet he still thought her perfect, and that idea in the slightest astounded him, for he could not understand what there was in that arctic stare of hers and her ghosting Victorian features that seemed to glide back into her skull, but he found himself still writing in the splattered ink of one confused, and undeniably enamored by this reclusive temptress, that she was as lovely as the swallow that drank from the wine of the goddesses.