The stuff dreams are made of. Angel dust. Wouldn't spill a single drop. An overwhelming sensual treat. You can never be too greedy. Or have enough bottles of champagne. Eleven is the perfect number for that. Absolute devotion. The impossible dream. (Image: Philipp Marfurt Photography I assume) |
Dreaming with my eyes wide open. I see, hear, feel taste and smell everyting. How can this not be real? "Can I help you clean up, mistress? Please... I'll do anything you want. Forever. I live to serve. Please, please mistress. Very please?"
Down the rabbit hole I go. Again, always. Neverending. Guess I never stopped in the first place. It happens to all of us. Intoxicated, but not by the mighty champagne.
Happy New Year!