D
de-valmont
Guest
It was one of those long weekends, like than watching a kettle boil when waiting for the morning coffee. Shorter on sassiness than an unhosted episode of Springer entitled: "My daddy really loved my mother". Frankly the place was not the same: lacking that certain New York edge, the laughter was subdued, as if it had been coshed over the head by some rampant press-ganging midget.
Still the city is rising up around me, reaching like a gray mass of arms into the night sky, the sound of cars a symphony sending me into sweet slumber where Morpheus himself guides me to the place where, once again, the world's greatest pleasures are to be unearthed: that hidden treasure, smiling with a wickedness that can make the devil himself blush, he reminds me just what may be.
Still the city is rising up around me, reaching like a gray mass of arms into the night sky, the sound of cars a symphony sending me into sweet slumber where Morpheus himself guides me to the place where, once again, the world's greatest pleasures are to be unearthed: that hidden treasure, smiling with a wickedness that can make the devil himself blush, he reminds me just what may be.
