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Literature by Fundelstein


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August 2, 2013
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She is what some call an ideal.

Why did the roads of our destiny cross? No one knows. Hell is waiting for me, since the Gods made me taste paradise. There is no weak words to describe her ; pejorative becomes meliorative, this embittered perfection of her face reminds me those delightful paintings of Goddesses.
If Beauty and Charm melt into a being, this very abject being would suffer of her heavenly presence.

This infinity of sensations in her gaze, make feel and shudder of everything best this world offers.
Alike a luminary with a human face: only needing to be to shine brightly, no one can touch her, inaccessible.
Faint men would fight ; I would fight, slay, die, just to feel her breath.

Such misfortune for the inept man who, goofy, dullard, can only think about one thing.
Such fortune yet that the only thing I think about is Her.
Love is like poison: silent and deadly.
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